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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515620">skin contact.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny'>dickovny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Thick of It (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, I know nothing about uk politics but GOD, Slow Burn, THIS GOT WILDLY OUT OF HAND, accidentally a christmas thing, do I know a lot about restaurants, irresponsible wine punnery, most of my inspiration for this is phil counting his courgettes, pontificating about restaurant minutiae, sommelier culture, the opposition is the kitchen staff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 04:41:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>52,628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nicola Murray struggles to run a restaurant and Malcolm Tucker is the Sommelier from hell.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>145</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. first growth.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This project got so much bigger than I intended! </p>
<p>1.) If you are the sort of person that's into these things, here is the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6OXOfllat5lfT682TExAGz">massive sprawling playlist</a> I've been listening to while writing. It's not in a particular order - but I did at least shove the mountain of instrumental piano tracks into the back half.</p>
<p>2.) This comment section has been so EXCEEDINGLY VERBOSE that I went ahead and started a <a href="https://discord.gg/Se8RjM8RVw">discord server</a> for anyone who is interested. It is definitely not specific to this fic and has morphed into a general ttoi/RF discussion board.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola Murray was no one’s first choice. Probably not the second or third either. Nicola Murray was so far down the list of potentials that her inclusion might have been a typo.</p>
<p>Understandably so. Her pregnancy with Rosie was the death knell of her career. It was hard enough juggling two kids and the ridiculous hours the industry tended to ask of you. Three children was simply impossible - James was no help at all and there is only so much nannying one can realistically afford. She had briefly fantasized about returning to the labor pool when Rosie reached primary school. But then came Ben. Sweet, chubby-cheeked Ben torpedoed that pipe dream.</p>
<p>Nicola loves her children, she really does. But she doesn’t particularly love being a <em> mother</em>. Not the biggest fan of wiping snotty noses or bandaging skinned knees or being responsible for the emotional well-being of a gaggle of tiny humans at all hours of the day. So when, after another five years of wading through dirty nappies and a truly astounding amount of laundry, she received a call from somebody in Tom’s office practically <em> begging </em>her to consider their offer - well. Nicola didn’t think about it too hard.</p>
<p>James wasn’t happy about it. As she predicted. But James hadn't been externally happy about anything in at least two decades. She had hoped for a fight - for <em> any </em>kind of response beyond placid detachment. But he simply huffed and refolded his newspaper, mumbled something about asking the housekeeper to come round one or two more times a week. </p>
<p>It wasn’t solely her desire to get out of the house that made her say yes. When Tom Davis calls and offers you something you don’t say <em> no. </em> He had become a force to be reckoned with the last few years, a rising star in the London culinary scene with the blistering success of his uber-trendy haute-fusion spot “No. 10.” The position wasn’t <em> there </em> - Nicola’s resume may have been impressive a decade ago but even at her peak she certainly wasn’t qualified for that. No, this was at a smaller venture that Mr. Davis had opened just shy of a year ago. Meant to be a smaller, less wildly expensive return to classic cuisine and top notch service, it opened to a spectacular amount of buzz. But the buzz was less <em> methode traditionnelle </em>and a little more bottom-shelf California sparkler - fizzling away to less than nothing after five minutes on a counter top.</p>
<p>While the waiting list for a table at No. 10 currently sat ten months deep, this place was barely treading water. From what she could gather the last General Manager, Hugh Abbott, nearly ran the restaurant into the ground. Grumbly, sardonic, and about as useful as a marzipan dildo, he had been kicked to the curb with very little fanfare at the end of this fiscal quarter. Nicola had heard from a friend of a friend that the poor bastard was now Assistant Manager in some chain hotel restaurant in <em> Leeds. </em>The proverbial managerial bar was set imperceptibly above the ground, so low that Nicola needed only to step over it with the barest expenditure of effort.</p>
<p>All of this swirls around her as her heels clack on the concrete sidewalk, nearing the front entrance. This knowledge should imbue her with confidence. She should be able to throw open the doors and strut into the building with her head high and shoulders back. Like a regular Gordon Ramsay, here to shit on their lamb and turn them all around. In spite of it all, Nicola finds herself hovering by the door, clutching her now-lukewarm paper cup of lemon zinger and chewing on her lip. </p>
<p>Everyone in the industry talks, nothing is ever secret. And the same friend that told her about Abbot’s eventual fate also let slip just how far down the list of prospective candidates Nicola truly was. One notch below Clare Ballentine, of all people. Excellent.</p>
<p>She thinks for a moment of running. Of saying ‘fuck it all’ and continuing down the sidewalk. Maybe she could stop for chips. But of course everyone would talk about <em> that, </em>too. About has-been Nicola Murray being too chickenshit to show up for her first day. Mustering up the last withered ounce of courage in her belly, she firmly tugs at the front door - which doesn’t budge.</p>
<p>“Not open yet,” drawls some stocky brunette woman, pointing at the hours painted on the glass. “Dinner service only.”</p>
<p><em> DoS </em> stares at her, scrawled a half-meter high in gilded script across the two doors. Seeing it like this, with gaudy letters the size of her face, Nicola is struck at once by how completely <em> stupid </em> of a name it is. It’s meant to be a pun - both an acronym for “Department of Service”, whatever the hell that means, and literally <em> dos. </em>How unimaginative, calling your second restaurant “two”.</p>
<p>Watching the woman inside continue to disregard her, Nicola considers that the narrowing margins might not be entirely Abbott’s fault. Department of Service her <em> arse. </em>She steadies herself with a calming breath and knocks insistently against the glass. The woman huffs, shuffling over to unlock the door. She doesn’t even open it all the way, giving herself just enough space to poke her head out. It reminds Nicola of a cartoon gopher.</p>
<p>“Can I help you? First service isn’t until five o’clock, miss.”</p>
<p>“I can read, yes. Thank you,” Nicola runs her tongue across her teeth, gripping her tea to prevent herself from coming totally unglued. She doesn’t want her first act as General Manager to be bollocking some poor hostess before she’s even come in the door. Not really the tone she wants to set. “I’m actually <em> not </em>here for dinner service. I’m Nicola. Nicola Murray?”</p>
<p>A ruddy crimson flush sets across the woman’s cheekbones as the pieces fall into place.</p>
<p>“Oh, gosh. I’m so - please, come in,” she throws the door open, motioning for Nicola to enter. “Sorry about that, y’know how people get. Banging on the door at all hours, insisting they have a three o’clock lunch reso when you don’t even <em> have </em>a lunch service.” To illustrate her point, she hurriedly clicks the deadbolt behind them as soon as the doors close.</p>
<p>“First day, right? Not to worry, Tuesday nights are slow round here,” she strides to the host desk, this monstrous wooden thing that looks simultaneously far too modern and entirely outdated, Nicola following behind. “Well. Most nights are slow here. You can thank Hugh for that.”</p>
<p>A moment passes in uncomfortable silence as the woman fiddles with something on the computer. Nicola’s fear that this woman is the only other person in this godforsaken building is absolved by some <em> boy </em>in what looks like his father’s suit striding in from the dining room. He ignores Nicola’s presence entirely, stopping behind Terri to read over her shoulder.</p>
<p>“Just how abysmal is it tonight, Terri? I’ve got three servers breathing down my neck already about not coming in. I’d like to be able to cut someone <em> before </em>they start trekking down here. You know how they get.”</p>
<p>“Thirty eight covers,” the woman - Terri - tuts. “And get this - eight of that is an unconfirmed hen night party at <em> ten. </em>I’ve been calling them all afternoon and getting sent straight to voicemail.”</p>
<p>“Sorry - I realize that I’m new here and all,” Nicola clears her throat, and the two heads swivel up from the computer screen. “But is there a reason we’re holding an unconfirmed reservation for <em> eight </em>people in our last slot? Surely we have a policy on that. Did we at least take a credit card number or something?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry - who are you?” The man-child looks at her from over his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a finger.</p>
<p>“Nicola Murray,” She offers, watching an utter lack of recognition on his face. “Hugh’s replacement?”</p>
<p>“Oh - jesus <em> fuck. </em>Terri, why didn’t you say anything? You useless git.” He extends a hand forward, taking hers in a less-than-sturdy handshake. “I’m Ollie Reeder, Front of House Manager. Hugh plucked me out of the server pool over at Ten. Not sure if it was a favor or a death-sentence.”</p>
<p>The gesture seems to finally jog something loose in Terri, who jumps to her feet and offers a hand to Nicola as well.</p>
<p>“Where are my manners? I’ve just let you stand there like that this whole time. Terri Coverley, Host Manager.”</p>
<p>Nicola does her best to stifle a grimace. This is the management team? An overgrown schoolboy and someone who acts like an exhausted civil servant? Here she was worried that she wouldn’t measure up, that she was out of her depth. How quaint.</p>
<p>“Listen, Terri. Who’s on the floor tonight? I don’t want to run with less than three, not after that fucking circus last Thursday when Tari talked Glenn into letting him try running the whole dining room by himself and Phil tried to knife the poor bastard,” Ollie picks up a clipboard and scowls at it. “Annabelle, Lucio, George and <em> Elizabeth</em>? God, Elizabeth is just fucking shite, isn’t she? I can’t deal with her whingeing tonight. I’m trying to stay sober on shift for fuck’s sake. Watching her talk to tables is like watching the slow child in the school play stammer through his only line. Ring her back, tell her she got first cut. I’m going to show Nicola around, give her the <em> grand tour. </em> No other cuts, Terri. You understand that? Don’t let another one of those bastards stay home.”</p>
<p>Terri nods, picking up the phone and placing it against her ear. Ollie turns to Nicola, making an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, then nodding his head towards the dining room.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about Terri. Really, we’re all sorry about Terri. Even Terri’s <em> mum </em>is sorry about Terri. Instead of sending her birthday cards she mails out condolences,” he smirks to himself. Try as she might, Nicola can’t really find a way to support the conversation. Ollie’s statement just dangles in the air before she changes the subject.</p>
<p>“Right. So. Embarrassingly enough - I’ve never actually been inside the building. The only in-person interview they gave me was over at Ten. I really <em> am </em>going to need an actual tour.”</p>
<p>Ollie laughs, then turns and gasps slightly at the earnestness in her face.</p>
<p>“Christ alive, you aren’t kidding? Fucking hell. It’s like they aren’t even trying. I’d say we’re the redheaded step-child but we aren’t even that, are we? We’re a bloody miscarriage chucked in a rubbish bin.” He stops for a moment as the walkway opens up into a moderately sized dining room. Several large windows framed by generous drapes face the street, allowing for a sizable stream of natural light. A handful of large pedestals are interspersed throughout the room, with ostentatious floral displays atop each. Ollie stops by a table, pulling a bit of lint from a cloth. He picks up a wine glass and holds it up in the sunlight, scrutinizing as he rotates it. Trilling his lips in dismay, he places it upside down on the table. “Annabelle’s glassware is usually about as clean as a Glasgow bus seat. She’s lucky I caught it and not .. well. Anyway. This is the main dining. I think they were aiming for classic with the decor, but smacked right into outdated instead.”</p>
<p>She crosses experimentally through the room, approximating the number of tables. Somewhere around thirty-ish. Which makes for about a hundred seats when all is said and done. Manageable. Her sense of inadequacy lessens by the moment.</p>
<p>“I think it’s fabulous. Really.” Ollie has an eyebrow hovering somewhere near his hairline, so she elaborates. “The drapes, the table cloths, hell - even the fabric cushions on the chairs. It’s all sound absorption. That industrial chic movement that everyone loves nowadays - those ridiculous open kitchens and all the hard angles and metal surfaces - it’s <em> awful </em>for noise. A Saturday night sounds like Hiroshima.”</p>
<p>Something about this tickles Ollie, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, it can get loud enough in here, just you wait on that. But let’s continue our little walkabout, shall we?”</p>
<p>They pass through the main and into an absurdly small service hallway, lined with shelves of glassware and folded linens. A massive pair of bifold doors sit halfway open, revealing a second dining room about half the size of the first. There’s some god-awful painting of a landscape dominating the rear wall - a slapdash image that seems to have grabbed influences from at least twelve places across the continent, all jumbled up. Italian architecture drawn into French countryside with a geographically impossible mountain range looming in the background.</p>
<p>She’s so distracted trying to piece it together that she nearly stumbles into Ollie’s back. Stopped at the foot of a narrow staircase, Ollie lets a harried-looking young man with an armload of wine bottles hurtle down and cross frantically in front of him.  Speaking with a thick Scottish accent, he keeps chanting a litany of ‘move <em> fucking move</em>’ under his breath as he blusters past.</p>
<p>“What’s up there?” Nicola asks innocently enough, gesturing up the stairs with her palm. “Shall we go look?”</p>
<p>“It’s just private dining. Small room, about thirty guests maximum.” Ollie runs a hand through his hair. “And um. Wine cellar. But that’s - we don’t need to do that <em> right </em>away.”</p>
<p>There’s a hesitation in his voice - Nicola would love to find out exactly <em> why </em>he seems terrified of the wine cellar. Hopefully that will become apparent on its own.</p>
<p>“Let’s continue the tour then, shall we? I’d love to get out of this hall. Just a bit tight back here, isn’t it?” She mutters, having to follow behind him in single file. The tendrils of a claustrophobic panic are beginning to grip her psyche.</p>
<p>“You get to a point where you know <em> exactly </em> who’s behind you based on tit and arse imprint alone, yeah.” The hall opens to an even <em> more </em> thoroughly cramped room - full of bus tubs, server computers and glass racks. The back half of the room is dominated by an over-cluttered service bar, where a bespectacled man is pouring over an inventory checklist. “Speaking of tits - how <em> are </em>you today, Glenn?”</p>
<p>“Sod off, Ollie. Go stick your cock in a hostess, why don’t you?” He fires back, crouching down to count a series of gin bottles. Nicola coughs, loudly. Glenn shoots a glance over his shoulder, face paling at the sight of her. He rushes to stand, pocketing his glasses. “Terribly sorry you had to hear that.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, Glenn. She’s the new Hugh, as it were. I’m sure she’ll hear it all from us sooner or later.”</p>
<p>It irks her, being spoken for like that. But she would like to choose her battles carefully today. So with a practiced efficiency she packs her annoyance away, smiling politely at Glenn and offering a small laugh. “Yes, I’m very sure I will. Nicola Murray - the new Hugh, then.”</p>
<p>“Glenn Cullen, Bar Manager. Should be <em> Beverage Program Coordinator</em>,” He huffs. “What I was hired to be anyway. But we all know that the Goebbels of Gamay would never allow that. If it came from a grape, I’m too much of a philistine to have an opinion.”</p>
<p>“For fuck’s sake, Glenn. Just leave it. She’s been here all of thirty minutes and you’re already sowing the seeds of discontent among the ranks.” Ollie passes behind the bar and pours himself a glass of soda water, his presence irritating Glenn to high heaven.</p>
<p>“Who is this, then? This … Goebbels figure?” Nicola asks. Glenn’s face is a mask of pity.</p>
<p>“Oh, dear. Has no one warned you?” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Ollie, you really must warn her. You can’t just let her walk into this <em> blind. </em>”</p>
<p>“Warned me?” It’s occurring to Nicola just how little official detail she was afforded about this job. All she had to go on was hearsay. Tom’s people just sort of chucked her in the deep end without the slightest bit of care about whether or not she could actually swim. And so many people turned it down... “About what? About <em> who</em>?”</p>
<p>There’s a sound of several cardboard boxes being hurled down the flight of stairs, followed by a good deal of inaudible shouting and the trudging of feet. The two men look at each other and wince as the roar gets closer, turning into something approximating human speech.</p>
<p>“No - no, listen here you sniveling fucking <em>shite. </em>If I don’t get that case, that case that you fucking <em>promised </em>me I’m gonna shove an Ah-so right up - no. I wouldn’t like a different vintage - if I wanted to be balls deep in your beautiful older sister I wouldn’t take <em>your </em>flat, unripe arse instead, now would I? I was guaranteed a six bottle allotment of the Chateau - alright. How’s about you Mar<em>gaux</em> fuck yourself, you useless raggedy cunt?”</p>
<p>“About him, actually.” Ollie speaks in a hush, staring into his soda water as if he’d be able to climb in and drown himself if he just concentrated hard enough.</p>
<p>He’s smaller than Nicola expected. Had she not heard it with her own ears, she’d have a tough time believing such a lithe frame could produce such a volume of fury. Bounding around the corner is an angular grey-haired man in an equally grey suit, holding a Blackberry directly in front of his mouth to more efficiently squawk into it.</p>
<p>“When I’m through with <em> you </em> love, you’re gonna be hawking Sweet Shiraz from a cartoon kangaroo’s left tit,” he hisses, before slamming an index finger into the dial pad and ending the call. With a disturbing air of calm, he pockets the phone and smooths the front of his jacket. “Is there a reason you’re all standing here with your fucking mouths open like a bunch of trout? Is there a new fucking fish-themed prix fixe I don’t know about tonight that you lot are just spectacularly endorsing?”</p>
<p>The shock begins to recede, and for reasons completely indecipherable to herself, Nicola begins to laugh. It starts as a slight giggle - the harder she tries to stuff it down the worse it gets. Eventually, her shoulders shake hard enough that she has to set her cup down on the service counter to stop from spilling it.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Nicola breathes, attempting to regain control of herself. She would certainly feel a lot better about things if anyone else in the room was laughing at all. Ollie looks amused, while Glenn seems positively mortified. “It really wasn’t - I thought you were joking.”</p>
<p>“Who the <em> fuck </em> is she supposed to be? Was this your idea, Glenn? Hiring hostesses that Ollie <em>won't </em>want to fuck?” The man hisses while clamoring behind the bar and disappearing behind the espresso machine.</p>
<p>She had forgotten, in her several years sojourn to Mummy-land, just how stupidly masculine restaurants could be. There is a moment where she envisions hurling her tea at him.</p>
<p>“Believe it or not - she’s the new Hugh,” Ollie offers, again speaking <em> for </em>her. Every moment spent with him has lessened her opinion. There’s a bark of laughter between the pressurized-steam sounds of the machine, and then a hefty silence. Nicola charges forward into the breach.</p>
<p>“No. I really am. Not a joke.” She tries to smile around her words, but can feel it turning into a sneer. The man slides into view, leveling a gaze at her over his coffee cup that she can only guess is meant to terrorize her. Anyone who has raised a teenage daughter can survive a good glare - she continues unabated. “Nicola Murray. I’m your new General Manager.”</p>
<p>She offers a conciliatory hand, but he doesn’t make an effort to grab it, instead letting it hang in the air.</p>
<p>“You may be <em> their </em>General Manager,” he snarls through his shark’s tooth grin. “But I don’t answer to you, and I think we need to understand that right away, yeah? I’m Malcolm Tucker. But you, mere mortal, might as well call me fucking Dionysus. Because I’m the God of wine round here.”</p>
<p>He gestures towards her with his cup before downing the contents in one go, swishing it around his teeth and grimacing.</p>
<p>“And what a righteous and vengeful God am I.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. trimethyl dihydronaphthalene.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="small">1, 1, 6, -trimethyl-1,2-dihydronapthalene (TDN) is a member of the C13-norisoprenoids family. <br/>
</span> <span class="small">TDN is a compound that is associated with positive and negative attributes in white and red wines,<br/>
most commonly known as the kerosene or petrol aroma in Riesling wines.<br/>
<b>-<a href="https://waterhouse.ucdavis.edu/whats-in-wine/tdn-116-trimethyl-12-dihydronapthalene">waterhouse lab.</a><br/>
<br/>
</b></span></p><p>It is decided that Nicola should spend the evening observing at the host desk, in order to get a feel for the flow of things. The prospect of several hours alone with Terri on a slow Tuesday night doesn’t sound particularly pleasant, but the idea has its merits. It saves Nicola from having to endure too much of little Lord Ollie. <em>And</em> it also shields her from the brunt of Malcolm’s aggression. He isn’t fond of the host desk. Trying to get him to look at the books or - god forbid - <em> answer a phone </em>is tantamount to bathing a feral cat.</p><p>At a glance, their reservations system seems pretty standard - but Nicola has been out of the game long enough that the advances in technology are a little jarring. On top of that, her concentration keeps being hijacked by Malcolm’s barrages as he utterly reams some unfortunate wine rep, his voice echoing out from the waiting lounge.</p><p>“Over my bloated and decaying corpse am I putting this on by the glass. Don’t care how much you discount it. I cannot fucking stand this New Zealand shite - reeks of grapefruit and armpit. So much urea stench it’s like a litter box. I can’t tell if I’m drinking grapes or fermented cat piss.”</p><p>“Is he always like that? How has he not collapsed dead of a massive coronary yet?” She grumbles to Terri, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the computer screen. Her eyes catch notice of the conspicuous listing in red at the end of the evening’s bookings. There’s a solid hour and a half of dead space between it and the last reservation previous. “Is that - have we <em> still </em>not confirmed that party of eight?”</p><p>But Terri isn’t listening - there’s a curly haired woman at the door that seems to be causing her a great deal of distress.</p><p>“Oh no. Oh <em> dear </em> oh no,” Terri mutters before toddling over to the entrance with a half-assed wave and synthetic smile. Her voice oozes feigned gratitude, leaving Nicola equal parts disgusted and impressed. “Thank you <em> so much </em> for coming on such short notice! Why don’t you go grab yourself a tea? I’m just finishing up walking new Hugh through the ressie system.”</p><p>She wonders if she’s doomed to be known as “new Hugh” forever. The newcomer sets her purse behind the desk and strides off to the back, oblivious to the way Terri’s smile melts into a thin-lipped frown. “We were short a host tonight - Robyn fell ill and couldn’t make it in. I couldn’t get a hold of anyone else. Y’know how it is. Nobody answers their bloody phone on an off day,” Terri explains, sighing as she plops back into her chair. “I called Ten and they said they’d send me someone. I just didn’t count on it being sodding <em> Angela.</em>"</p><p>“What’s wrong with Angela?” Nicola asks. It’s important, from a managerial standpoint, to be familiar with your weak links. So far she hasn’t encountered any she would call strong.</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong with Angela <em> herself</em>, per se,” she offers, rubbing at her temples. A shrill feminine laugh cuts through the air.</p><p>“I can work here just fine, Ollie! As long as you stay the hell away from me,” Angela snaps, loud enough to rattle the glassware. It’s an intentionally public declaration of dislike. “You effete little twat.”</p><p>Nicola understands Angela’s tone <em> exactly. </em></p><p>“Christ. He’s slept with her, hasn’t he? When he worked at Ten.” She’s beginning to see that the collective digs at Ollie’s sexual proclivities are based more in reality than would be ideal. Which is baffling, when one looks at him. Maybe his parents have money, Nicola muses to herself. “And it didn’t end well, did it?”</p><p>Terri’s response is drowned out by even <em> more </em>yelling from Malcolm. Something about preferring the selection at a Tesco and an innovative usage of the word colorectal.</p><p>This is the high point of the evening, everything else fading to a boring slog as the hours drag on. Tuesday nights don’t garner a lot of foot traffic and the books were slim to begin with. It turns out that Dos uses the same reservation and seating procedures as Ten - Angela is competent enough to do most of the heavy lifting for the evening without any assistance. Frankly, she’s far more informative than Terri was. One shift with her and Nicola feels confident enough to run the door on her own in a pinch. She wistfully considers asking Angela if she’d rather work for her instead. As an added bonus, her presence at the desk is enough to keep Ollie away from them both. With Terri running interference, Nicola barely hears from him all evening.</p><p>The night is so quiet and uneventful that Nicola’s previous nerves dissipate entirely. Absolutely nothing happens, apart from Annabelle <em> weeping </em> in hysteric frustration when her close-out report comes up fifty quid short. A quick peek through her receipts reveals that she accidentally closed a ticket for a re-cooked porterhouse out to cash instead of having it comped. The girl is so relieved that she actually <em> hugs </em>Nicola, smearing wet mascara on the shoulder of her blouse. The interaction leaves her feeling even more up to task than before.</p><p>There’s a true desolation to closing up on a weeknight, watching each guest and colleague saunter out into the night from her perch behind the desk. The sounds of the dinner service fade gently into the metallic clink of polished silverware and the hushed laughter of the kitchen staff. At fifteen minutes to close, the only patrons left in the whole building are a positively ancient couple gumming their way through a creme brulee. Glenn insisted on walking Terri and Angela out when they left, and that was ages ago. All but one of the servers have long gone. Lucio goes through the token gesture of glancing at his glassware one more time, waiting for the pair to finish. Written across his face is the desire to spoon feed the old crone so everyone else can finally go home.</p><p>“Chef wants to know if he can call time of death on tonight. I told him I’d have to ask our fearless leader.” Zipping up his jacket, Ollie catches the slightly panicked question in her eyes. “Don’t worry - I’m not leaving you totally alone on your first night, that would be fucking mental. Malcolm’s still here. He’s doing inventory upstairs. Said he’d come down in a few and walk you through the close out procedure. He’s the one that told me to leave. Er - bugger off to a hole and die, to be precise.”</p><p>“That’s worse, somehow. That’s worse than me being alone and you know it,” Nicola bites. The tip of her pencil snaps off against the notepad she’s toying with, scribbling down the ingredients in the house cocktails in a less-than-successful attempt to invent mnemonics. “Fine, go. But tell Chef to hold off until ten. Humour me.”</p><p>There’s ten minutes of quiet after Ollie leaves.</p><p>Then the unthinkable happens.</p><p>The hen party actually <em>arrives</em>.</p><p>There’s an explosion of noise when they stumble bambi-legged in the door, in their too-tight dresses and wobbly shoes. Nicola can’t get a headcount right away - other than the one wearing a “bride-to-be” sash and a tiara, they all look exactly alike. But it’s definitely more than eight of them. Already slightly sloshed, trying to get them to wait in the lounge while she rushes to get a table ready is akin to wrangling toddlers. They’re loud enough that even the geriatrics can hear them, urgently flagging Lucio for their bill from across the dining room as he and Nicola struggle to push two tables together.</p><p>Suddenly, an unsettling calm descends on the restaurant. The high-pitched squeals turn to a soft murmur of contentment. Malcolm appears at her elbow, with an armload of silverware and a fist full of glasses. For all of his yelling, the man seems to move without making a sound, instead blinking into existence in her field of vision. It’s decidedly alarming.</p><p>“How on <em> earth </em>did you get them to settle down?” She whispers over her side, frantically dragging a salad fork into alignment with the wine glass across the table.</p><p>“Popped a bottle of cheap sparkling. On the house for the lovely little bride to be,” he sneers. Malcolm glares at the table for a moment, then backs away with a satisfied nod. “Put a flute in a tart’s hand and she’s guaranteed to shut her gob for a minute or two. They can’t resist it, makes ‘em feel like Victoria fucking Beckham. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go warn garde manger they’re about to see an onslaught of fucking dressing-less caesars. Like the blitz but with more croutons and less orphans.”</p><p>It’s a nightmare trying to get the order once they finally sit down - someone was told they had a special gluten-free menu when they certainly don’t, the bride is deathly allergic to onions but <em> only </em> if she has too many, at least that’s what her mum told her. The loud one with the big teeth is on some kind of Paleo diet but absolutely <em> loathes </em> vegetables and the drunkest one keeps asking for the bouillabaisse she had last time. Except Lucio attests that they have never, to his knowledge, served bouillabaisse. Two of them don’t even order - they “already ate.”</p><p>And Malcolm was right. There are a total of six caesar salads. All with the dressing on the side.</p><p>It is an industry absolute that women eat slowly, especially in groups. Anyone who has watched a girl eat a salad one lettuce leaf at a time accepts this as a universal truth. Thus, it is nearly midnight by the time mains have been cleared and poor, stalwart Lucio patiently makes a third attempt at a dessert order. And of course the cunts order <em> coffees. </em></p><p>Nicola’s eyes are so dry she can <em>feel</em> her lids drag across them with each blink. The screen of her cellphone is painfully bright on her exhausted irises when she finally takes it out of her purse. One unread text message from James, received well over an hour ago reads: “day 1 and ur already staying late. fuckn excellent. nothin changes.”</p><p>Ah yes, like Mr. “Surprise Weekend Meeting” and “Extra Holiday Hours” has room to talk. Fucking tosser.</p><p>“You look thirsty.” A wine glass clinks against the surface of the desk, startling Nicola out of her angry reverie. Malcolm’s voice is hoarse as he slides the glass closer to her, and it occurs to Nicola that he is probably just as exhausted as she is. The man looks like a walking corpse. “Drink.”</p><p>Cupping the bowl of the glass with her hand, she swirls the straw-colored liquid experimentally. Something about the simple gesture is anathema to him. A vein visibly throbs against his temple.</p><p>“Never hold the glass - jesus. Don’t you know anything?” He scoffs. “Grip it by the stem, you dozy mare. Otherwise your meaty palm’s gonna take the chill off.”</p><p>Nicola can’t tell if she’s more embarrassed or angry. Her guard slipped at the sight of a gift, and now she wants to toss it right back in his face.</p><p>“Fine.” She makes an exaggerated show of sliding her fingers down to the stem. “Now. What am I drinking?”</p><p>“Riesling. They asked for a Pinot Grigio but I talked ‘em into it. People just don’t know what they fucking want. They just know what they <em> think </em>they want.” He pauses to shove his nose as deeply as anatomically possible into the glass, taking a massive inhale. “Of course they drank the stuff like fish. You should see the carnage in the ice buckets out there - it’s like a hundred and one Alsatians.”</p><p>“I’m not partial to sweet wines,” Nicola begins, haunted by the memory of a particularly rough night out in her youth. The thought of the sugary nectar brings on a Pavlovian response to the near alcohol poisoning and her stomach rolls in protest.</p><p>“Shite, you really <em> don’t </em> know anything. I knew it was bad but I didn’t know it was <em> this </em>abysmal. Jesus - take the glass. Toss it around, give it a nice thorough fucking sloshing, yeah? Tell that wine he’s been a bad, bad boy. And mummy’s here to punish him. Like this, right?” Placing the glass on the surface of the desk, he settles his fingers on the base and deftly swirls the liquid within. The movement is practiced and hypnotically graceful, producing a beautiful golden circle - Nicola’s wine clumsily flops from one side to the other. “Now stick your nose in there. All the way in, get nice and fucking acquainted with the aroma. Live in it. Let the smell make sweet, nasty love to your olfactory senses. Let the esters dry-hump your frontal lobe. Now tell me - first thing you notice, right off the top of your head. Don’t think. Lord knows we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”</p><p>It feels like the wrong answer as soon as it leaves her lips, but he specifically told her not to think. To just speak. “Petrol. It <em> reeks </em> of bloody petrol.”</p><p>“Even a stopped clock’s right twice a day.” God help her, his praise actually <em> warms </em>something in her. There’s a split second where he looks genuinely pleased. “Thatta girl, now keep going. What else?”</p><p>“Honey? Maybe beeswax.” Her self-consciousness diminishing, she closes her eyes and takes another whiff. “Lemon curd.”</p><p>“Alright. New Hugh isn’t a total fucking waste of space. Now <em> drink</em>,” Malcolm urges. She expects the wine to be syrupy and cloying, like the scent. But the difference is so striking it almost gives her whiplash - it’s vibrant and bright, an explosion of lemon and clean acidity. It’s like drinking electricity. Nicola opens her mouth to speak but he cuts her off with a finger in the air.</p><p>“No. Don’t talk. Another sip. Really get it in there. Chew on it. Coat your teeth. Give it a nice and proper gob job.”</p><p>She’d like to tell him off for that last comment - but the wine is simply too good. Really, absolutely fucking phenomenal. How dare he be <em> right. </em></p><p>“Now, let’s get everything together so we can leave the second those cunts are done toying with a single pudding split six ways,” he growls, opening a drawer in the desk and pulling out a hefty binder. “And don’t you <em> ever </em>try and turn down a wine from me again, darlin’.”</p><p>Malcolm is as efficient at shutting things down as one would expect - the lights are off and the alarms set by the time the girls are pouring out onto the sidewalk. Nicola can still hear their voices floating in the air as he twists the key in the lock behind them. They leave in a strange, stilted silence. Malcolm insists on walking her to her car, only relenting and turning around when hers is within eyesight. Even then, she’s fairly certain he watches until she gets in and starts the engine. It’s only when she pulls away that he hails a taxi.</p><p>The house is pitch dark when she parks, the external light blinding her when she trips the motion sensor on the way up the walk. Her hands are tired enough that she fumbles her keys trying to open the front door, knees popping in protest when she crouches to pick them up. Stumbling into the dark entrance way, the point of her heel connects with a toy car instead of the floor and she pitches forward, catching herself on the wall. As her eyes adjust in the dim, she’s disappointed to find that the house is an absolute ruin. The toy car is one of a small fleet of Ben’s, leading to the foot of the stairs. A school blazer - probably Ella’s - sits abandoned on the sofa along with an empty crisp packet. The coffee table is covered with schoolwork and several takeaway containers linger on the kitchen counter.</p><p>Shit. Fucking <em>hell</em>.</p><p>Nicola is far too exhausted to attempt any amount of serious tidying - she only picks up the cars in the interest of public safety. Her feet ache when she kicks off her shoes, and there’s a sharp twinge in her shoulder when she shrugs off her jacket. As much as she missed working, she didn’t miss this. Having to choose to spend the remainder of her waning consciousness on a hot shower or standing in the artificial glow of the refrigerator, drinking orange juice from the bottle and picking at cold leftover curry. A rumble from her neglected stomach persuades her to go with the latter.</p><p>The sugar from the juice buoys her a bit, her brain coming back online as she climbs the stairs. It occurs to her that there’s an email she needs to send to Rosie’s teacher and the phone bill is due. But of course her laptop isn’t plugged in. There’s a sticky smear on the outside from a child’s fingers. Rosie was probably using it to play a game or whatever it is she does, and tried to hide it back in the bedroom when the battery died.</p><p>Normally she’d ask James before using his computer, in the interest of propriety. But he’s sound asleep, snoring gracelessly in the center of the bed. So she quietly tiptoes into his study. The desktop is still turned on, so she gives the mouse a quick jiggle. When the screen lights up, Nicola’s stomach drops.</p><p>Her idiot husband has forgotten to close the last webpage he was on. Staring back at her is the homepage of one of those extramarital dating websites. She notes with detached curiosity that he isn’t logged in - for all she knows, for all she <em> wants </em>to believe, he could simply have landed here by mistake. A pop-up or a virus or a spam email or something.</p><p>Nicola really likes to trust in the inherent good in people. And right now she needs to believe that her husband isn’t trying to have an affair. Or that if he is, he isn’t stupid and hurtful enough to just leave it lying out where she or - heaven forbid - any of the children can see. So she closes the page, writes her email and pays her phone bill like the dutiful wife she is.</p><p>When she climbs into bed, James rolls over and slips an arm around her waist.</p><p>She can’t find it in herself to remove it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Floored at all of the feedback so far. Nothing I write for other fandoms gets this verbose of a response - I'm tickled by how vocal y'all are. My ego is dangerously stoked.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. common allergens.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Long ago, Nicola’s circadian rhythm became untethered from the rising and setting of the sun or any innate physical need of her own. It has instead grown inextricably linked to the daily routine of her family. Which is why, despite crawling into bed at an ungodly hour, she now finds herself awake pre-dawn. And though the house is quiet and no one needs her for at least another hour, she is totally unable to return to sleep.</p><p>It isn’t <em>entirely</em> unpleasant - she’s always been intoxicated by the charm of a silent, sleeping home. The notion that all of her children are snug in their beds makes her feel rather accomplished, when all is said and done. Slipping out of bed as quietly as her furious joints will allow, she shuffles to the en suite and cranks the shower on full blast. There’s a stale dryness to her mouth - she can’t recall brushing her teeth before bed last night, as tired as she was. Bending to take a quick drink of water from the tap, her eyes catch her reflection and she frowns.</p><p>Never one for too much vanity, Nicola had always regarded herself as looking <em> decent </em> enough. Solidly above average. Her smile in particular always felt quite nice. But now, in the wee hours of the morning after far too little sleep, she is struck by the sensation that perhaps her best years have passed. There is a slight crease between her brows and the crinkling of crows feet pooling at the sides of her eyes. The made-up faces of the hen party last night and the airbrushed advertisements on the dating website flash before her. The comparison is involuntary and unwanted, but it stings just the same. Nicola simply isn’t young, not anymore. She has four pregnancies and countless nights like the last written across her skin. After nearly two decades of marriage, can she blame James for even <em> thinking </em> about someone else? </p><p>She runs the shower a touch too hot, painful in a way that she doesn’t really mind. The discomfort is centering somehow. When she towels off, her skin is a vibrant and angry pink. By the time she’s putting on her makeup and attempting to do something about her hair, the spell of quiet is broken. James knocks on the door in his slow, clumsy hand.</p><p>“Come in.” The words are mostly vowels, her mouth held open as she swipes on a coat of mascara. He yawns broadly, stumbling into the bathroom and scratching his stomach beneath his pajama top. When their eyes meet, he smiles.</p><p>“God, what a lovely face to wake up to.” His compliment feels genuine enough to disarm her, to cut through the haze of self-loathing she’d slowly mired herself into. “I’m sorry I missed you last night, but it was so late. I just couldn’t make it. Not after wrestling with the fearsome four. I dunno how you do it. How was your first day and all?”</p><p>She shrugs, tucking a strand of hair back with a pin. “Nothing to write home about really. Rather dull. Staff is a bit odd. Late party came in, you know how girls are. Stayed and chatted for ages.”</p><p>Then, she changes tack.</p><p>“I went to use my laptop last night, but the battery died. It was all sticky - was Rosie using it in her room again? You know I don’t like her on the internet unsupervised.” James makes a noncommittal noise as he turns on the shower. “Very frustrating, having it dead like that. I ended up having to use yours just to make sure the phone bill was paid on time.”</p><p>“Oh? Sorry ‘bout that. Guess I’ll talk to her about it today,” he mutters, yawning again. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to take a quick piss before I wash. Sorry, love. Needs must.”</p><p>If he’s hiding anything, he’s damn good at it. Nothing in his reply suggests any unease at Nicola having used his computer. Maybe it really was an accident. Nicola acquiesces to not really knowing, for now. Besides - a a gaggle of kids downstairs need to be shipped off to school. There isn’t time for playing spy. Not with the Murrays in the morning.</p><p>A few drops of Rescue Remedy later, Nicola is ready and willing to tackle the clusterfuck downstairs. The schoolwork is neatened and carefully set in Ella’s bag - there’s a permission slip that James neglected to sign. She’s thankful that she caught it now, rather than getting a phone call from Ella’s teacher at some point this afternoon. This way they can at least pretend they’re on top of things. The blazer on the sofa passes the sniff test and with no<em> visible </em> stains or spots, Nicola feels that a quick spray of fabric freshener will make it passable. Rubbish is binned and surfaces are wiped. Ben groggily shambles out of his room at the sound of her hoovering - apparently James allowed him to actually <em> sleep </em>in his Spiderman outfit.</p><p>Before she can admonish him for the esoteric choice of pajamas or the toy cars in the foyer, he runs smack into her abdomen and wraps his arms around her so tightly it knocks the wind out of her.</p><p>“What’s all this then?” She coos, ruffling his fine hair with her fingers. “I never get hugs like this from you anymore. Thought you were too big for that.”</p><p>“I got scared last night. I <em> never </em> go to sleep without you here,” Ben grumbles into her shirt. “Never ever. I got scared I’d wake up and you <em> still </em>wouldn’t be here.”</p><p>“But I did come back, see? I wouldn’t ever leave, you silly thing.” Nicola pries him away, searching his eyes. “And besides. You had your daddy here to protect you and everything.” This seems to satisfy him, and he gives her a curt nod. “Now, why don’t you go wake up the girls while I make breakfast? And take those cars with you, <em> please.</em>”</p><p>After the chaos has settled and she has ensured that everyone is fed, clothed, and has observed proper dental hygiene, Nicola takes a moment for herself. Cradling her morning mug of tea in her hands, she leans against the kitchen counter and for the first time in a very long time - she smells it. Really <em> smells </em> it. She thinks of the Riesling from last night and how many things there were to notice, when one took the time to <em> really </em> look. Steam pleasantly caresses the skin above her lip as she closes her eyes and takes a deep inhale. And then another. There’s a malty caramel and vanilla quality, an almost sweetness that lingers on the back of her palate. But the second sniff brings something else, an underlying earthiness - and it calls to mind all of the places this tea has been. Where it grew, who picked it, how it was dried and packaged and shipped. All of the hands that touched it, all of the different places the sun shone down upon it.  When she drinks, she thinks of Malcolm and swishes it forcefully against her teeth.</p><p>“Enjoying your tea are you? You look like you’ve never had it before,” James teases as he strolls in, shattering her moment of peace. “Haven’t seen Ella or Katie yet - did they already leave? You know how I <em> hate </em>when they go without saying goodbye. I dunno, feels like bad luck or something.” </p><p>“I know what you were up to last night.” Her voice comes to her from somewhere outside of herself, still partially focused on the tea. Nicola hadn’t intended on bringing this up yet - she’s startled by her own apparent desire to confront him on the matter. “With the house I mean. You left it a mess on <em> purpose. </em>You were trying to make a point about the housekeeper.”</p><p>“Did it work?” He smirks at her, planting a wet kiss on her cheek as he reaches behind her for his keys. The harsh scent of his mouthwash and his cologne clashes violently with the tea. She’s never noticed how strongly he smells. Or maybe it didn’t bother her before.</p><p>“Yes,” She sighs resignedly. The tension in her tone goes unnoticed. “I guess it did, you cheeky bastard. I’ll call Nastya today. Oh - don’t let Rosie leave her lunch in the car again. She’s done it four times this month already. The school thinks I’m trying to starve her.”</p><p>James turns to go, making it two steps out of the kitchen before remembering something and turning back.  “Nic - that text I sent you last night.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Ignore it, yeah? I was tired and the kids were a handful and - I just got frustrated. I was an absolute arse.”</p><p>The apology surprises her - James is never this thoughtful. She’s too taken aback to really contribute anything, other than a garbled “s’fine.” And then they’re all gone, Rosie and James through the door first, Ben straggling behind. He glances back at her with his massive brown eyes and she blows him a reassuring kiss. The uncertainty in his gaze makes her wonder if she’s doing the right thing, going back to work. If she can <em> really </em> handle it all. If there’s enough caffeine and Rescue Remedy in the world for what she’s attempting to do.</p><p>There’s no time to stop and consider it - Nicola Murray’s work is never done. There’s grocery shopping to be done and dry-cleaning to pick up, doctor’s appointments that need scheduling and housekeepers that need to be called. She barely manages to find the time to pick up a pair of more sensible shoes on her way to the restaurant, some non-slip flats. As much as she likes what the heels do to her legs, the discomfort after even one slow shift isn’t worth it. When she makes it through the door for the start of her second shift, she’s actually slightly winded from all of her rushing around. Thankfully, Glenn doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“Oh, <em> Nicola.</em> I just heard how late those girls kept you last night. Can’t believe they actually showed up. How <em> awful</em>," he tuts, taking off his glasses and looking up at her from behind the host computer. As phony as Terri comes off, there’s a note of sincerity to Glenn. He seems to genuinely care that last night went more than a bit sideways.</p><p>“Thank you for your sympathies, they’re much appreciated.” It’s important to have allies among the ranks. She notes that Glenn might be worth keeping on her side. “How are things looking tonight? Any better?”</p><p>“...yes and no.” He pauses to think, tilting his head this way and that while he fiddles with his glasses. “Maybe. Somewhat? It’s slow tonight on the regular business side of things. But there’s a party of fifteen upstairs. Very V.I.P. Tom’s niece, nineteenth birthday. Four courses - set menu, pretty straight forward. Malcolm’s in the lounge now cementing some pairings. Sam’s brought some bottles over from Ten at Tom’s request.”</p><p>Craning her head to peer into the lounge, she sees Malcolm sitting at a glass table, examining one of several wines crowded around him while scribbling on a sheet of paper. A pretty young woman is busy unpacking bottles from a wooden crate on the floor. To her surprise, he seems decidedly <em> relaxed</em>, even going so far as to chuckle at something the girl says under her breath.</p><p>“Sam?” Nicola asks, still looking at the tableau in the lounge. The woman’s form is quite shapely in her pencil skirt and pumps, and Nicola is made to feel dowdy in her comfortable flats and wrap dress. Her moment of reckoning in the mirror this morning certainly hasn’t done her any favours.</p><p>“Sam Cassidy. Malcolm’s assistant at Ten,” Glenn clarifies. “He’s been helping her study to pass her Advanced, and she’s been maintaining their inventory for him while he’s busy here. His other assistant, Jamie, kind of floats between the buildings. I’m sure you’ve met him. Angry little Scotsman? Looks like a rehydrated Malcolm. Or like he reproduced by budding.”</p><p>Ah, yes. Nicola remembers now. The furious rushing man on the staircase. Although she’s having trouble recalling his face - she can’t quite tear her eyes away from the serene smile on Malcolm’s lips. Then it clicks into place. They tease Ollie enough about where he sheaths his sword. Perhaps this is where Malcolm rests his? It’s something to be filed away for later, for sure.</p><p>“Pearson’s having a meeting with some of the kitchen staff in the Bailey room, if you’d like to sit in. I think they’re going over the menu for the party,” he drones. It’s a good idea, and Nicola is thankful for the suggestion. Glenn’s risen several notches in her esteem in the past few minutes alone. Although, the bar wasn’t set terribly high to begin with.</p><p>The Bailey room - named for the artist who painted the unfortunate mural along the rear wall - is an intimate space comprised of a meager handful of tables. The two on one side are freestanding, the other two sit against a banquette below the painting. When she rounds the corner, a large man in a chef’s coat is gesturing in the air with a printed menu mock-up. “You’re putting me on, Stewart. This is - is this list of restrictions <em> real? </em> My God, what is the poor girl <em> allowed </em> to eat? Bloody air and wheatgrass?”</p><p>“Raw veganism is a valid and fulfilling lifestyle choice, Peter.” Nicola recognizes the bespectacled man as Stewart Pearson, the Executive Chef they share with Ten. The name Peter rings a bell - she hazards a guess that he’s Peter Mannion, their Chef de Cuisine. The lanky fellow with the uneven smile and the thin-lipped blonde girl rounding out the group are unfamiliar to her. “In fact, vegetarian and vegan diets have been on the rise for the past decade. Poke your head out from under your sodding rock and into the twenty-first century. Not everyone subsides on a diet of pints and meat pies like a caveman.”</p><p>Quickly and quietly, Nicola crosses between them and stuffs herself into a corner banquette, offering an apologetic wave for the interruption.</p><p>“Ah! New Hugh!” Pearson beams at her. The sleazy artificiality of his entire countenance sets Nicola’s teeth on edge. She’d rather the open disdain the rest of the room is giving her than whatever the <em> hell </em> this is. “I so looked forward to meeting you.”</p><p>“God - I just. I have a name you know,” she snaps before she can stop herself. Pearson appears crestfallen at the outburst - she tries to mask her annoyance with a small nervous laugh. “Sorry - everyone’s been calling me ‘new Hugh’ since I walked in the door yesterday and it’s making me - Nicola. Nicola Murray. Please.”</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you, Nicola. I’m Peter Mannion, Chef de Cuisine.” It's a loud attempt on Peter's part to drown out any response from Pearson. On that front, it's a resounding success. He pauses to point at the two in the room she doesn’t recognize. “Here you have my Sous Chefs, Phil Smith and Emma Messinger. And the overbearing twat-waffle in the glasses is Stewart. Our executive chef and supreme leader.”</p><p>“Can we <em> please </em> just get on with the menu like adults?” Emma groans from her spot in the corner. “I have a fucking <em> mountain </em> of prep to do today and you lot are just eating into my time. Unless one of you is going to come back there and start de-veining prawns for me, I’d like to be done here.”</p><p>“What menu is this we’re looking at? If you don’t mind me asking.” Nicola leans over to look at the copy on the table in front of Pearson. As General Manager, she should probably be somewhat informed. “For the party tonight - Tom’s niece, yeah?”</p><p>“Yes. Phoebe.” Leaning back in his chair, Peter adds in his rumbly baritone, “Apparently, the girl is on some sort of raw herbivore kick. Very hunter-gatherer. Er, I guess just gatherer, really. Might as well be feeding a group of rabbits tonight.”</p><p>“The whole thing reads like a bloody cauliflower tasting menu - cauliflower rice sushi to start, followed by courgette noodle curry with oh <em> look, </em>more cauliflower. And could it be? Marinated cauliflower steaks for mains?” Phil groans sarcastically, rolling his eyes. </p><p>Nearly unglued, Pearson clenches his fist and bangs it against his thigh. “Could you just shut the <em> fuck </em> up, Phil? Unless you have anything constructive to add, by all <em> fucking </em>means!”  </p><p>“For once, I’m inclined to agree with Stewart, for fuck’s sake.” Peter stands, trying to regain control of the rapidly disintegrating meeting. “And Emma’s right - there’s too much shit to slog through this evening to be bickering over Cruciferae. Besides, you’re all setting a terrible example for - oh, Christ, fucking <em> what’s-her-name. </em> ”<br/>
<br/>
“Nicola,” she offers, with a grimace and fluttering eyelashes. She had never considered herself a misandrist, but today might be the day that shifts the tide.</p><p>“Right. Nicola. That’d be it. Look - she doesn’t need to be party to our dysfunction. Phil and Emma - you are released to your de-veining and peeling and whatever the fuck it is you need to do. Stewart? Go find something constructive to do, if you can manage.” He runs his hands through his hair, thoroughly frustrated with the entire situation already. “I’ll walk <em> Nicola </em>around the back, which nobody seemed to think was worth doing yesterday.” </p><p>The kitchen is a pretty standard set-up, Nicola is pleased to see. A pair of lightweight plastic doors swing in from the service area to a narrow walk-way. On her left is garde manger, where a pair of teenagers are portioning salads while a tinny speaker plays some hip-hop song that Nicola vaguely recognizes as something Katie likes. To her right is the main line, a cramped three meters of gas ranges and convection ovens behind a long expo window. Further back, past a cluttered wall of plates and a soup station, is the dish area, dominated by its massive machine and shelves full of plastic tubs and metal sheet pans. A quick left and Nicola is brought past the huge groaning ice maker and into the walk-in cooler and freezer. The floor of the cooler is slick, and she’s thankful for the shoes, no matter how dowdy they make her feel.</p><p>“That’s everything,” Peter says with a shrug, pushing open the heavy cooler door. “I’m going to go and supervise the children, why don’t you go have Glenn make you a cappuccino? You look tired as all hell, if you don’t mind me saying.”</p><p>Before Nicola can slip out the door behind him, he is replaced by a harried-looking Emma, followed by Ollie. They're positioned in a way that makes it impossible for Nicola to leave. The enclosed space is uncomfortable at best and downright claustrophobic at worst. She focuses on the pair's conversation in an attempt to maintain her sanity, pretending to examine a carton of heavy cream in the meantime. Emma bends to pick up a box of carrots and he reaches around her, grabbing for a courgette from the same shelf. </p><p>“What are you going to do with that?” She asks, setting a few lemons in the box as well.</p><p>“It’s a courgette. I’m going to eat it,” Completely baffled, Ollie responds, examining the vegetable and rotating it in the air. “What else would I do? Fuck myself?”</p><p>“Just eating it raw? God, you’re fucking bizarre.” Something about the resignation in Emma’s tone makes Nicola increasingly concerned that somehow, Ollie is sleeping with this one, too. What the <em> fuck </em>is it about him? He looks like a wet muppet. “Besides, I wouldn’t do that. It’s Phil’s.”</p><p>“Yeah, and?” Ollie leans backward into the door, holding it open so Emma can maneuver the heavy box out into the kitchen.</p><p>“Well, he <em> counts </em> them. He inventories them individually. Peter’s been on him about food cost lately and he’s trying to prove a fucking point.” She can still hear Emma, even as the pair slip out of view. “No, no one let Phil near the speaker! He’s not allowed anymore. Not after - Phil, if you play ‘Concerning Hobbits’ one <em> more </em>time I’m going to brulee your left testicle.”</p><p>With nothing else to occupy her before the shift starts, Nicola takes Peter up on his suggestion. The cappuccino Glenn makes her is unpleasantly watery and lukewarm, and she resolves to watch him make one in the future, to diagnose exactly what the <em>fuck </em>went wrong. But it’s caffeinated enough to perk her up as she settles in by expo to watch the evening’s service. There’s a small space right by the ice cream cooler where Nicola can wedge herself <em> just so </em> and not be too much in the way. And after an hour or so of observation, she must admit to herself that as off-putting as he may be, Peter is an <em>excellent</em> expediter. His tone remains consistent and controlled, calling out dishes and ticket numbers clearly. And despite their ‘dysfunction’ earlier, as he phrased it, his staff works <em> really </em> well together. They listen to his calls and maneuver around each other with grace, dishes being plated from different stations with extreme coordination and timing. There’s no background chatter - only Peter’s calls and a chorus of “yes, chef” and “no, chef.”</p><p>Of course, it all goes to shit once Pearson comes in mid-service. There’s a bit of bickering back and forth about it - but to Nicola's disappointment, Peter is ultimately muscled from the window and forced to trudge over to the sauté station. </p><p>There’s a shift in the air - none of the staff seem to want this, and right off the bat Nicola can tell that they’re right. Pearson's calls are inconsistent. He frequently misspeaks and as the tickets come faster and faster, everything starts to really go off the rails. The insistent drone of the printer makes him jumpy. Servers keep returning with incorrect orders while plates continue to pile in the window, incomplete and out of order. He’s traying things up faster than the staff can possibly get to them, sweat beading on his nose. Furiously, he pokes his head into the wait-station and hollers for someone, <em> anyone </em> to come get this <em> fucking </em> food.</p><p>Annabelle, looking decidedly frazzled, swiftly ducks in and hoists a heavy tray onto her shoulder. “Nicola - can you please - just follow me with that next tray. It’s the rest of the mains for my party,” she grunts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “Just bring them upstairs - I’ll serve them.” It’s a demand, not a request - the door is swinging behind her before Nicola can breathe a word otherwise.</p><p>“Alright - here, five plates of cauliflower steak with romesco. Take them and <em> go, </em>New Hugh,” Pearson slaps the ticket onto the tray. Nicola pauses for a moment to look it over and distant alarm bells start to sound in her head. Big red letters, typed under the order for seat three, read: <span class="small"><b>‘NUT ALLERGY. ALLERGY - TREE NUTS. PEANUTS. ALL NUTS!!!</b></span></p><p>“Hang on, chef - romesco? That’s almonds, right? And it says <em> right here </em> that they’ve got a nut allergy - “<br/>
<br/>
Pearson wheels around on her, jabbing a finger into her chest.  “I think I’m well-acquainted with their fucking <em> menu, </em> pet! I wrote the damn thing. Am I speaking <em> Greek? </em> Take the food and go<em>, </em>you fucking tit.”</p><p>Nicola stutters a response, but Pearson simply roars at her again to go. Resignedly, she lifts the tray onto her shoulder and trudges out. Annabelle thanks her profusely when she drops it off upstairs. The room is chaotic and loud, the girl barely maintaining control of the party. She takes a few moments to help put the fire out, refilling glasses of water and wine before heading back downstairs. Annabelle mouths a polite thank you when she catches her eye. Nicola returns to her little nook by the freezer, refusing to even <em> look </em>at Pearson, who has somehow become even more frantic since she left.</p><p>Five minutes pass before all hell breaks loose.</p><p>“Who the <em> fuck </em> brought those mains out?” Malcolm barks, slamming the flimsy door open with as much force as he can muster. “I wanna know right <em>fucking</em> now so I can murder them with my bare hands and take a massive wet shit in the mouth of their desiccated corpse.”</p><p>“Nicola did,” Pearson shoots out, without even turning around to look. Cowardly fucking <em> shithead. </em></p><p>“Oh yeah?” Malcolm turns to her, drilling a hole into her skull with his eyes. The space was cramped enough when it was just her and Pearson - now it’s impossible to breathe. There’s only centimetres between her and his fury. “And what part of ‘deadly fucking nut allergy’ did you not understand you <em> daft fucking cunt?</em>”</p><p>“I followed the menu exactly, Malcolm,” Pearson scoffs while wiping a drizzle of reduction from the edge of a bowl. “There wasn’t anything on that plate that Phoebe couldn’t eat.”</p><p>“Yeah? Tell that to her little sister with the nut allergy,” he turns back to Pearson, kicking the bottom of the ice cream cooler hard enough to leave a dent. “Better yet, maybe you should personally remove the Epipen currently lodged in her <em>fuckin’ thigh, </em>since you’re so sure she doesn’t need it. Tell her the anaphylactic shock is all in her head, that her airways should be working just fine since <em>you </em>said the menu’s alright.”</p><p>“Malcolm -” Nicola begins, but he cuts her off with a finger in the air.</p><p>“You, angel of fucking nut death,” He locks eyes with her again, his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. She wonders if he ran all the way down the stairs. It seems as if he’s fighting the urge to hit her. “Wait out in the fucking alley. Don’t touch another fucking plate. I have to go wait for the paramedics. And then once the girl is comfortably laid out on a stretcher, I’m coming to give you the bollocking of your life.”</p><p>Furious, Nicola stumbles past the line and out through the exit door into the cramped alleyway between them and the business next door. Her eyes are already wet with tears when the door slams behind her. It smells terrible, that unique hot sick smell of restaurant rubbish. Between several large bags of used linen, someone has constructed a seat from overturned milk crates. The cigarette butts littering the ground tell her that this is where they all come to smoke. </p><p>She tries to keep it together, to maintain a stiff upper lip. But as the sirens of the ambulance get closer, she can’t stop imagining the poor girl - sitting there for a birthday dinner one moment, then fearing for her life the next. Feeling her throat close up and her heart race - having to jam a needle into her thigh. Fucking hell. And all because Nicola couldn’t assert herself enough. Two days on the job and she’s racking up a body count. A sob starts to work its way up through her throat.</p><p>“You’re an active menace. You’re a fucking hazard -” Malcolm bangs the door open, advancing on her little stoop with the force of a hurricane. The sheer state of her stops him in his tracks, and he brings a hand to his chin. “Are you - are you <em> crying? </em>Christ, no - don’t -”</p><p>“I could’ve <em> killed </em>her,” she chokes out, much more unsteadily than she would have liked. But it doesn’t matter what he thinks of her. She’s probably not going to be working here after tonight. The realization makes her cry even harder.</p><p>“Yeah - that’s the whole point of the bollocking,” his tone softens, and he awkwardly nears her perch, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’m happy you can at least follow along that much.”</p><p>“All because I couldn’t stand up to that <em> stupid </em>twat.” There’s a shrill, panicky whine to her voice that she can’t seem to get rid off. She feels too pathetic to look him in the eyes, instead focusing on a wet kitchen ticket stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “I tried to tell him but he yelled at me and apparently that was all it took for foolish little Nicola to tuck her tail -”</p><p>“You <em> what </em>now?” He blurts, tilting his head. His words echo against the bricks in the quiet alleyway.</p><p>“I tried to tell him! About the romesco!” Nicola throws her hands in the air, then tucks them across her stomach. “But apparently i’m just a foolish tit, who doesn’t know anything! And too much of a coward to stand-up for myself.”</p><p>She’s not sure he even hears the end of her sentence, flying back into the kitchen as quickly as he came out. There’s a few minutes of unearthly silence, then Pearson slinks out. Refusing to look at her and swearing under his breath, he mounts the scooter leaning against the wall and leaves. Nicola doesn’t know what to make of any of this. The door opens again, Malcolm poking his head out. “What do you drink?”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” The question strikes her as a non-sequitur. She can’t quite wrap her head around his complete shift in demeanor.</p><p>“<em>What</em>. <em>Do</em>. <em>You</em>. <em>Drink</em>?” He repeats slowly, caressing each word with his gravelly brogue.</p><p>Nicola pauses for a moment, steadying her breathing and dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I'm quite partial to mojitos.”</p><p>“I’m not fuckin’ bringing you that,” he hisses, retreating with a shake of his head. When he returns, it is with a pair of rocks glasses filled halfway with clear liquid. He offers one to her, and she sniffs it experimentally.</p><p>“It’s just rum. It’s practically a fuckin' mojito,” he grumbles, settling in a lean against the wall next to where she sits. “Just shoot it, you coward.” He clinks his glass against hers, then knocks it back in a swallow. Sighing, she does the same. It’s certainly not a standard pour, at least a pour and a half, if not two. The heat in the back of her throat makes her cough slightly, and she could <em> swear </em>he almost grins. They sit in a comfortable silence, the warmth of the liquor spreading through her veins, Malcolm rotating his empty glass in his palms. Nicola is the one to break first.</p><p>“Is the girl … is she going to be okay?”</p><p>“The paramedics seemed to think so. Pearson’s been relieved for the rest of the night. I’m gonna make sure Tom knows whose fault this was,” Malcolm sucks his teeth, looking up at the sky. “Don’t think you’re outta the woods though. You need to have some balls, for fuck’s sake. You can’t let a shite like Pearson walk all over you.”</p><p>“That’s fair.” Nicola concedes. It’s funny - for all his ranting and raving, Malcolm has been thoroughly reasonable thus far. “Why are you sticking up for me?”</p><p>“I cannae stand that <em> cunt</em>,” He bites, pushing at a wet cigarette butt with the tip of his shoe. His accent has gotten thicker, Nicola realizes, his tongue fat and lazy in his mouth. She wonders if the glass full of rum wasn’t his first drink of the night. Something to keep abreast of going forward. “And it’s not stickin’ up for you if he’s the one in the wrong. It’s just tellin’ the truth.” Peeling himself from the wall, he offers her a hand up from her seat. She takes it gladly. But there’s an awkwardness to the physical contact - they both retract their hands the second she’s on her feet, Malcolm wiping his palm on his trousers. “Besides, it really got to you, thinking about that wee lass boohooing into her plate. It’s nice, y’know. Seeing somebody give a single, solitary <em> shite </em> for once.”</p><p>Later, when all of the tables are gone and she’s inputting the last of the close-out reports into the computer, Glenn pauses by the host desk. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, taking a step towards the door. Conflicted by something, he stops in his tracks and spins on his heels. “Nicola, can I say something?"</p><p>“I don’t see why not, Glenn.” She’s not sure why he <em> asked </em>- there doesn’t seem to be any stopping him at this point.</p><p>“Malcolm doesn’t apologize to people very often. Ever really,” He rolls his eyes, making a dismissive gesture with his palm. “You should consider yourself lucky.”</p><p>Nicola replays the events of the evening in her mind carefully. To her knowledge, Malcolm never once said anything remotely resembling “I’m sorry.” The confusion must be written plain on her face because Glenn elaborates.</p><p>“He brought you a <em> drink.</em>” He shoots her a meaningful look over his glasses. “That’s how Somms communicate. It’s the only way they know how.”</p><p>Before she can formulate an answer, Malcolm appears, placing a glass of wine next to Nicola on the desk. A smirk worms its way across Glenn's face, shaking his head and walking out into the night.</p><p>“What’s the great grey pillock want now?” he grunts, shoving his nose into his wine glass.</p><p>“No idea,” Nicola shrugs. There’s a strange sensation in her belly, one that she absolutely must ignore. Because for some reason, Malcolm Tucker keeps being <em> nice </em>to her, in his own strange little way. And that’s not something she wants to examine too closely. “Now. What are we drinking?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. durand, durand.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things get easier as time goes on, Nicola finding herself more competent with each passing shift. True, none of them are very taxing. Even the weekend nights are tame compared to other places she’s worked at - the dining room only fills for one, maybe two turns of tables at most. And as much as she’d like to see the restaurant doing better, she’ll take it as the gift that it is. For now. Doesn’t change her pay grade if they aren’t bursting at the seams every night.</p><p>It’s not just the restaurant that gets easier. Having Nastya come back two extra times a week lightens the load around the house. And the children are becoming more understanding, in their own limited ways. Ben still has his occasional bouts of separation anxiety, suddenly deciding that he needs his mother <em> right now</em>. More than once she’s taken her phone out of her pocket in the middle of a shift to see a spurt of missed calls from the home phone. Through it all, Katie has become the real star, frequently taking the younger ones under her wing. Nicola’s absence might actually be a <em> good </em>thing for the two eldest girls, giving them a sense of self-reliance and responsibility they hadn’t quite developed before.</p><p>As much as everything has blurred together these past few weeks, Nicola awoke today with the expectation that things would be <em> different</em>. A certainty that today would be special. She almost allowed herself a tentative excitement. But nothing out of the ordinary happened this morning, nothing that would support her hypothesis. Everyone simply followed the routine they’ve fallen into since she started working again. There was a smidge less chaos than usual - Rosie brushed her teeth without being told and Ella packed her own lunch for a change. And <em> that </em> was the high point. Her husband barely turned around when he said goodbye.</p><p>She received a coupon for a free coffee in her email, from one of those awful large chains. Determined to make today special in the way that she desperately craved it to be, Nicola ordered some frivolous thing - overly sweet, overly caffeinated and finished with heaps of whipped cream. There’s still a bit of the whipped cream on her lip when she ambles to the host stand, Terri politely motioning for her to wipe it while saying her hellos.</p><p>The idea that things would be special at home was one thing, but now that she’s here, Nicola hasn’t the foggiest idea why she thought anything different would happen at work. The books are average for a Friday night, slightly busy but nothing that requires more than the bare minimum of effort. </p><p>Finally coming to grips with the reality that her day will be painfully average, she settles into her chair and begins the banal process of assigning tables.</p><p>“Fuck! Fuck <em> shitting </em>fuck.”</p><p>Malcolm storms through the front doors, stopping two steps inside. He brings a hand to his mouth, standing totally still and staring at the floor. “Fuck. Fuckin’ - <em> fucking christing shit.</em>”</p><p>“Can I - is there something we can do for you, Malcolm?” Nicola offers gingerly. It’s akin to placating a spooked horse. “Are you having a stroke? Should we call someone?”</p><p>With a thousand yard stare, he numbly shakes his head. Compounding Nicola’s confusion, he advances a step and then turns and walks back out of the door. He thuds his forehead against the glass in a wordless scream. The stroke comment was initially a joke - but now she can’t be certain that he isn’t really having an aneurysm. He comes back inside.</p><p>“Alright. I’m okay. I’m okay now. I have it together.” Held up in a gesture of peace, Nicola can see that his hands are actually <em> shaking. </em>  “I just. <em> Fuck. </em> No. I’m fine? I’m not fine. This - this is not fine. This is distinctly the <em> opposite </em>of fine. This is so far from fine - fine is just a gleam in your whore mum’s eye.”</p><p>“Malcolm,” she tries again, using the tone she reserves for a child mid-tantrum. Before any progress can be made, it must be ascertained <em> why </em>there is so much screaming. “Can you please tell us what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Power’s out. At Ten. A fuckin’ - some cuntin’ transformer went and fuckin’ blew out - the whole block’s gone piss dark.” He won’t <em> look </em>at any of them - his eyes just stay locked at the air in front of his face. “Got over two hundred covers on the books tonight. Two hundred rich pricks and we can’t even make toasties.”</p><p>“That’s - yes. I <em> can </em> see how that’s bad.” Nicola can’t possibly understand why this is upsetting him so. Or at the very least - why he’s felt the need to have his complete mental collapse in the foyer of this particular restaurant. He swallows so hard that she worries he might vomit on his shoes.</p><p>“They’re - They’re sending ‘em all <em> here.</em>”</p><p>There’s a moment of utter silence as the vast and terrible volume of oncoming clusterfuck begins to unfold in their collective imaginations. He and Nicola lock eyes, her mouth dropping open in horror. She shakes her head. He nods slowly, a baleful grin on his lips. She shakes her head again.</p><p>“No. Nonono. Two <em> hundred</em>?” Nicola bends down, frantically searching the computer screen, roving her eyes over the table configurations. Numbers flash through her mind - average dining time, seat counts, <em> god are there even enough chairs</em>? “Malcolm - we can’t possibly. There’s no fucking <em> way</em>. Can’t we just - I don’t know. Offer them a voucher?”</p><p>“Don’t think I didn’t suggest it,” he chuckles to himself. The sound is so devoid of joy that it runs a chill down her spine. “I’d offer them all a fuckin’ reach around to stay the fuck away from you lot. Some of them took the voucher, yeah. And hopefully - god, I’m fuckin’ <em> praying </em> - some of ‘em don’t feel like traipsing halfway across town on a Friday night. But the rest of them <em> are </em> coming. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”</p><p>Nicola Murray wanted a special day? Well, she was going to get one apparently. Just not the one she hoped for.</p><p>“Right. Okay. There isn’t any choice, is there? We just have to buckle down then,” she pauses to swig down the rest of her coffee, already syrupy and now <em> cold </em> to boot. Time to rally the troops. “Terri? Whoever is scheduled tonight - they’re working. Anybody unfortunate enough to answer their phone? They’re working. Ollie - I want you helping Glenn. Stock <em> everything </em>and then stock some more. Batch prep if you have to.”</p><p>“Thatta girl,” he snarls, stepping behind the host desk and hovering over her shoulder. “Right - I’ve got Jamie on his way right now, he’s gonna help you throw together the upstairs for extra tables. I’m gonna start trying to import the reservations over to our system - try to <em> un</em>fuck this as much as possible. Slather a little lubricant on this puckered arsehole of an evening before we all get roundly and properly fucked.”</p><p>She doesn’t know where the impulse comes from, settling for blaming the sugar and caffeine thrumming through her bloodstream - but before she can stop herself, she volleys right back. “Maybe you can warm it a touch with your hand first, too.”</p><p>The embarrassment and regret are instant, the tips of her ears flushing crimson. What an absolutely inappropriate thing to say - she barely <em> knows </em>him. He stares at her intently, eyebrows raised. Her heart threatens to leap into her throat.</p><p>And then - he actually <em> laughs. </em></p><p>“Christ. I didn’t realize there was a living, breathing <em> woman </em> under the glummy mummy act,” His lips quirk in a fanged grin - it pokes at something deep in her belly. “Now stop flirting with me and go move some tables, you deranged desperate housewife.”</p><p>For all of his blustering machismo and sneering, Jamie is actually quite helpful when all is said and done. They manage to sort out the entire upstairs dining room with time to spare. There’s a nook behind a curtain where the waiters store their cutlery and various bric-a-brac. Nicola pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher there, drinking greedily. The last half-hour was spent moving mountains of glassware and candles and menus and god-only-knows-what from the downstairs, and it’s left her winded.</p><p>“I sabered a bottle the other night, you wanna look?” Jamie’s tone reminds her of Ben toddling in the living room to show her a crayon sketch or piece of macaroni art.</p><p>Nicola understands all of those words individually. But when strung together in that order, she is left thoroughly perplexed. “I’m sorry - <em> what?</em>”</p><p>“Sabrage. You know. <em> Whack. PSssshhh.</em>” He mimes holding an object in one hand and dramatically striking it with the other. She shrugs and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve got some choice fuckin’ photos on here.” Jamie reaches a hand in his pocket, taking out a rather abused looking cellphone. He pulls up an image on the cracked screen of himself, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and an honest-to-god <em> sword </em> in the other. The next photo - he has the sword sliding down the neck of the bottle. And then one more - a spray of foam and a very <em> chuffed </em>looking Jamie. Before he can elaborate any further, Terri is trudging up the stairs with the first table of the night. Nicola offers a polite smile and nod, Jamie shoving the phone back into his pocket. It is the last moment of calm any of them would know.</p><p>The evening descends on them with the force of a tsunami. People just keep <em> pouring </em> in, at a rate that defies the physical limitations of the building. The lounge is packed to the gills - the hosts can barely maneuver through the crowd to take any kind of cocktail order. Servers clamor over each other in the narrow hallway - equal parts exhilarated laughter and furious swearing. Nicola floats throughout, seating guests and bussing tables. She refills as many water pitchers as she can carry in her arms, and <em> then </em>some. Malcolm and Jamie thunder up and down the stairs so frequently, arms laden with bottles, that Nicola is reminded of a sequence from Scooby-Doo.</p><p>“...my <em> kingdom </em>for a fuckin’ decanter!” Jamie howls, powering through the mob of waitstaff.</p><p>Malcolm meets him, gasping for air at the foot of the stairs. “What d’ya want to give to that old slag at table nineteen? I’m headed up - I’ll grab it for you.”</p><p>“I was thinkin’ that half-bottle of Graillot.”</p><p>Malcolm scoffs at the suggestion. “Please - if I wanted her to drink pepper and horse sweat I’d tell her to lick your mother. I’ll get her something plush and useless from the states.”</p><p>With that he’s gone, shooting back up again. “You seem to have things pretty well under control,” Nicola adds, gesturing at Malcolm’s back.</p><p>“Yeah, we’re like reg’lar fuckin’ rockstars together, might as well call us <em> Durand Durand,” </em>He beams at her, a huge toothy grin. The bit of wordplay that he’s so proud of soars over Nicola’s head. “Y’know? After the wine open - you know what, it’s not worth it.”</p><p>Then another tidal wave. Somehow, even <em> more </em> tables. The laughter/swearing ratio is slipping decidedly towards the latter. Glassware is broken. A whole tray of drinks is dropped on the way to the lounge. But none of the guests leave angry. Some leave slightly nonplussed. Some actually <em> thank </em> them on the way out. But no one leaves truly angry. As the flood waters recede, the cacophony in the dining room fading to a dull roar, Nicola begins to fancy that the night has been a <em> success.  </em></p><p>The explosion of broken glass and a woman’s high-pitched shriek in the main dining room shatter the illusion.</p><p>Ollie’s the first face she sees, ducking his head in the hall and sheltering Elizabeth under his arm. She’s soaking wet and trembling, and one of her hands is bleeding slightly. Terri follows behind them with a dripping linen full of shards of green glass.</p><p>“Oh. Oh you <em> didn’t, </em>you - I don’t even have words,” Jamie hisses from his perch on the stairs. “You’ve robbed me of the power of speech.”</p><p>“She didn’t - what happened?” No one seems capable of describing what they just witnessed. They all stare, pale and traumatized. “Jamie?”</p><p>“I’ve heard rumours - whispers that someone could be this fuckin’ <em> stupid. </em> But I never imagined - the daft cow stuck a fuckin’ corkscrew in a Champagne bottle. You know what happens, when you’re enough of a reckless fuckin’ numpty to stick a sharp piece of metal in the top of a glass bottle full of pressurized <em> gas?” </em></p><p>“It explodes,” Elizabeth mumbles, sucking her quivering lip between her teeth while Terri dabs at the blood pooling on her hand.</p><p>“It <em> fuckin' explodes!” </em> Jamie shouts, throwing his hands in the air.<br/>
<br/>
“Right - nobody <em> fucking - </em> Nic’la! Here. Now,” Malcolm flies in from the dining room, furiously wiping down a sopping wet bottle of wine. Bits of ice fall onto the floor. “I’ve already apologized so hard to Tom’s fucking podiatrist - shoved his cock so far down my <em> own throat </em> - that I may never enjoy the dignity of a stable erection for the rest of my life. I need you to go open this <em> right now </em>while I go grab a replacement. Can you manage that or should I just run this whole shitshow by myself?”</p><p>She meets his glare with equal intensity, silently wrestling the bottle from his hands and slinging a folded linen over her wrist. Without a word, he gestures with his palm at the intended recipients and she coolly storms away from him.</p><p>Of course it’s the table in the <em> middle </em> of the room. Heads turn to follow Nicola as she weaves through the tables, bottle of Bollinger in hand. She knows that she’s doing that odd strained smile she has, the one that contorts across her face when she’s uncomfortable. But try as she might, the corners of her lips won’t be made to do anything else. Six people are gathered around the table - the meaty man in a suit and a scowl is most likely their host, Tom’s friend. On one side sits his much younger, much prettier wife. On the other is some wizened crumbly old woman, presumably the man’s mother, decked in an absurd quantity of pearls - Nicola wonders how her withered neck is possibly maintaining the strain.  The rest of the party is rounded out by two disgustingly posh little boys and a beautiful woman who looks roughly the man’s age, probably his mother-in-law. </p><p>Coming to rest at the man’s side, Nicola squeaks out a polite ‘hello’ and gestures at the bottle. He grunts in acceptance without even looking at her. It’s been awhile since she’s opened a bottle of sparkling tableside, and the pop of the cork takes her by surprise, jumping slightly at the sound. She pours the first ounce for the host, who makes a show of sniffing it and titling it under the lights. Nicola must simply stand there, frozen in place with her ridiculous grin, until he drinks it.</p><p>“Ah, excellent. Thank you,” He smacks his lips loudly, and Nicola is now free to pour for the other guests. “Pity the other girl was too fucking retarded to open it. What a waste of a pretty face.”</p><p>She stops dead in her tracks, leaving a half-pour in the flute in front of the old woman. “Sorry, what was that? Could you repeat that please?”</p><p>“The girl,” The podiatrist looks at Nicola as if she has grown a second head. “Beautiful but blisteringly stupid.”</p><p>“Right.” The anger that rises in her is so sudden and so <em> violent </em> that her leg trembles. There’s an accompanying nausea that makes the back of her mouth salivate. She clears her throat in an attempt to sound somewhat authoritative. “I’m afraid I’m actually going to have to ask you to leave. Not everyone. Obviously, ha. Just you, sir.” </p><p>No one moves. The man, assuming that Nicola must <em> certainly </em>be joking in a way he doesn’t follow, nervously laughs.</p><p>“I’m serious. I’m not going to have people disrespecting my staff like that.” The initial rush of fury settles in her gut, in a way that’s <em> manageable. </em> Her voice lowers and she throws her shoulders back. Time to be a big girl, Nicky. Time to be a big girl on this special day. “It’s just not acceptable. Take your time, figure out if the rest of you would like to stay. I can have the mains cancelled if need be. But you <em> are </em>going to have to leave, sir.”</p><p>“This is - do you <em> know </em>who I am?” When he stands, Nicola focuses on the napkin slipping from his lap onto the floor. She can’t back down, not now, and if she looks him in the eyes she might be tempted to retreat.</p><p>“Yes, sir. I’m well aware - take it up with Tom. Consider the wine on me, personally. Leave, sir. Now. Or I will be forced to call the authorities. The rest of you stay or don’t - please settle your tab with the maitre d’ at the front before you go.”</p><p>The man’s mouth hangs open. The sly smile on his young companion’s lips tells Nicola that he isn’t told no often enough, and certainly not by women. Undeterred, Nicola stands her ground - feet planted firmly, the stupid customer service smile plastered across her face.</p><p>It works. He leaves.</p><p>Nicola doesn’t care if the rest of the party stays, frankly. The whole lot can get fucked for all she cares. She doesn’t get the chance to find out if they do - as soon as she ducks back into the safety of the server station, shaking like a leaf in the wind, Malcolm descends on her with the fury of a vengeful God.</p><p>“You - you <em> fucking - </em> are you mental? Have you fucking lost <em> your entire </em>mind?” He swings an arm through a stack of heavy bound wine lists piled by the server computer. They clatter loudly across the floor. A passing waiter jumps and almost drops his beverage tray, glasses clacking against each other as they wobble.</p><p>“Excuse me, Malcolm,” Glenn interrupts from the bar, holding a towel like a flag of surrender. “But <em> perhaps </em>you should take this outside? I’m sure the whole floor can hear you.”</p><p>A minor eternity passes there, with Malcolm’s face inches from hers. It reminds her of a scene in Jurassic Park - maybe if she stands there <em> perfectly still, </em>breathing in his exhalations, then he won’t be able to see her. He won’t tear her throat out with his teeth after all.</p><p>“Yes.<em> Fine. </em>Alley. Now.” Monosyllabic barking is all he’s capable of at the moment. When she turns and strides through the kitchen and out the exit door, she can’t help but feel like there’s a firing squad waiting for her outside.</p><p>“What the <em> actual fuck - </em> I give you one job! One <em> fucking </em> job! And that is to transfer liquid from one vessel to another - that’s it. Simple as fuckin’ pie. And it ends with Tom’s podiatrist taking his dick from my soft palate and using it to piss in my <em> ear</em>. Are you fucking -”</p><p>“I’m not apologizing.” The words are sharp and detached, arms locked tight across her chest. He recoils as if struck, sputtering and struggling to respond.</p><p>“You’re not - how <em> dare - </em>“</p><p>“He was an arse. An absolute, complete - do you know what he said? Did he tell you <em> why </em>I threw him out?” The adrenaline from earlier hasn’t left her system - blood rushing through her ears like a jet engine. Nicola Murray could lift a car with her bare hands right now.</p><p>“Said you were being some P.C. nutter - some feminazi cunt -” He whirls frantically from one side of the alley to another, gesticulating wildly.</p><p>“No. It wasn’t about me. I can take insults about me - please. I’m not a <em> fucking </em> child. What he said about Elizabeth - in front of his <em> family </em> and his <em> wife, </em>it was vile. Absolutely fucking vile. Said it was a pity such a pretty girl was so retarded. Say what you want about me but I draw the line at verbally abusing my staff. And I really draw the fucking line at verbally abusing the young women I’m supposed to be in charge of.”</p><p>She hadn’t realized she was shouting until she stopped, and felt her throat burn in protest. Honestly, she didn’t realize until she had <em> said </em>it just why the man bothered her so much. The idea that men felt so comfortable talking like that - she had been there before, when she was young. And it could be Katie or Ella just as easily now. A switch flipped in her at that table and she went feral.</p><p>It’s killing her - the way that Malcolm is just <em> staring</em>, with his head cocked to the side and a finger resting on his jaw.</p><p>“Are you going to - fuck,” The rush leaves her in an instant - the come down is a hell of thing. Her legs go unsteady and she backs against the wall. Something in the back of her head tells her that it will dirty her skirt. “Am I going to be sacked?”</p><p>“Please,” Malcolm joins her against the wall. “If anything’s gonna get you sacked, it’ll be the way you fuckin’ open champagne. Attenborough should’ve narrated - like watching chimps discover how to use tools.”</p><p>“Seriously?” She’s offended - but the criticism is a deflection on his part, and a flimsy one at that. He can’t agree with her choice tonight, at least not endorse it aloud. But he doesn’t <em> disagree </em>either.</p><p>“Christ, yeah. Fuckin’ - can’t tell your right from your left, hands shaking. And then the <em> noise, </em>don’t get me started. Bottle popped so loud my rectum clenched."</p><p>“Is it not - but it always makes a sound.” She’s latching on to this disagreement with both hands - he’s offering her an escape rope. A way for them to move forward without either party admitting fault. “That’s the whole <em> point, </em>the pop.”</p><p>“It should sound no louder than a gentle fart from Sister Mary Sparklin’,” he chides. “You don’t - you don’t believe me. Come on, I’ll give you a proper lesson. A real teachin’ moment here.”</p><p>With a wave of his hand, he’s walking her back through the kitchen and into the server station. They muscle past Glenn through the tiny bar, and ducking through a low, crooked doorway they find themselves in a cramped and dusty storage room. It’s smaller than Nicola would like, shelves crammed full of various-sized liquor bottles and glassware and cardboard boxes. The door to one of the coolers creaks violently when Malcolm pulls it open, clanging through several bottles until he finds the one he wants.</p><p>“Here we go, Tarlant ‘Zero’ - fuckin’ nectar of the gods.” He holds the green bottle aloft, letting Nicola go over the label. “Come on then, let’s open her up. Doesn’t do anybody any good in the bottle, does it?”</p><p>Taking the bottle in her left hand, she reaches for the cage with her right and feels for the thin circle of wire with her thumb.<br/>
<br/>
“Y’know it’s always six right? The muselet,” he elaborates. “It’s always six half-turns. Count ‘em in your head, if it helps calm you down. Stop your calf quivering, you nervous Nell.”</p><p>She takes his advice, slowly counting each and every twist of the metal piece. And damn it all, it really does help. The cage wiggles off into her hand and she pockets it in her blazer.</p><p>“Jesus H - don’t point the damn bottle at <em> me,</em>” Malcolm practically yelps, rushing forward. “Once the cage is off, pretend it’s a shittin’ loaded gun. Keep your thumb on the top and point it at a nice safe point on the ceiling, away from my fuckin’ eyes <em> and </em> yours. You’re gonna take out some poor fucker’s <em> teeth </em>like that. Here - look - “</p><p>Before she can protest, he steps behind her, bringing his arms around her waist. One hand comes to rest over hers on the neck of the bottle, the other positioning her right hand so that the top of the cork is flush with her palm. Their fingers all but lace.</p><p>“Take your right hand here - like this - and keep the pressure on with your palm. Start twisting now, gentle as a fuckin' baby lamb - thatta girl - “ Nicola tries, really <em> tries </em> to focus on the wine in her hands. To take in the lesson that he's offering. But the room is so small and Malcolm’s chest is so close that she can practically feel his heart beat against her shoulder. Each of his words breathes against her ear. He’s warmer than she expected, somehow. “Now - there’s a moment where the bottle relinquishes the cork, see? Where it’s in your hand now and not the bottle - feel it? You’ve got it - don’t panic and pull out. Just gently - <em> gently - </em> there’s a lot of pressure in there. Just tilt it, just a little bit - let the pressure release -”<br/>
<br/>
The soft ‘pfffffffft’ that slips from the bottle is rather anticlimactic, compared to the hammering of Nicola’s heart in her chest. They stand frozen, the cork in Nicola’s hand and Malcolm pressed against her back, for far longer than is appropriate or necessary. The only coherent thought that races through her brain is that Malcolm doesn’t <em> smell </em>like anything at all. Just the vague aroma of the restaurant and mild hand soap.</p><p>Snapping back to attention, Malcolm removes his hands and backs away. He’s a bundle of fidgety nerves - shoving his hands in his pockets and hopping from one foot to the other.<br/>
<br/>
“See? It’s not that hard. Even <em> you </em>can do it -”</p><p>“Hang on - do you smell chips?” She sniffs the air once, twice. The greasy, fatty aroma of fried food awakens her neglected appetite. And offers them a way out of this sudden discomfort. “Yeah, I think I smell chips.”</p><p>It turns out there is a longstanding tradition amongst Mannion and his crew. If a shift goes truly sideways - a real nightmare of an evening - and they manage to scrape through without making him want to brain them with a skillet, he makes chips. Massive, <em> massive </em>quantities of thick potato slabs. The staff swarms to them, piling them on makeshift plates of coffee saucers or napkins. Nicola peeks over the shoulder of a busboy to see them nearly gone, when Malcolm calls out behind her.</p><p>“You’ll have to be faster than that, pet. We work with a bunch of filthy fuckin’ vultures.” Her heart sinks at first, until she realizes that he’s carrying <em> two </em>small plates in his hands, gesturing towards the lounge with his chin. “Don’t think I’m doing this to be nice - you’re still on my shit-list for the cock-up with the podiatrist. I want to show you something - try to cram a sliver of knowledge in that vacant void you call a brain.” </p><p>At his behest, she trudges over to the lounge, sitting at the glass table with their plates of chips. He skitters off again and she takes the time to check her cell. Nicola had texted her husband earlier to let him know she’d be late, when they found out just how <em> fucked </em>they truly were tonight. She had hoped for concern - some sort of acknowledgment about today - but all that she received was a simple little “k.”</p><p>When he returns, it is with two Bordeaux glasses and the bottle of Tarlant tucked in his arm, setting the glasses down and pouring a healthy slosh in each. He plunks the bottle down on the table with a hearty thwack. </p><p>“Why not flutes?” Nicola picks the glass up and gives it a proper sniff. The effervescence tickles her nose.</p><p>“You’re seeing why right now. Can’t stick your nose in ‘em. Can’t smell shit from a flute.” Proving his point, he takes a long inhale and happily groans. “Now, you’re about to witness some real magic here. I’m talking alchemical shit. Spinning gold from fuckin’ potato slabs. Drink the wine, eat a chip, drink again. Trust me.”</p><p>She does as she’s told - and my <em> god</em>, it’s perfect. Salty and fatty and crisp and tart. “How - what - “</p><p>“Classic wine pairing technique. You can lean into the whole ‘like with like’ bollocks - you know, cream sauce and a fat chardonnay. But the <em> really </em> great stuff - you have to play things against each other. It’s all about the bloody contrast. You take - here. You take some beautiful, crisp, acidic as all fuck champagne, right? Like basking in God’s light. Top shelf shit.” Smiling, he gestures with the glass at himself. And then he points it at her. “And you put it with - chips. Regular old, reliable chips.”</p><p>It might be a compliment in some twisted, backhanded way. But she can’t take being compared to a greasy bit of root veg - not today. The bubble that’s been building inside of her since she awoke today, the thing that she won’t admit to herself or to anybody else - it’s forcing its way out of her mouth. For the first time today, she puts it into words.</p><p>“It’s my birthday. Today.”</p><p>There’s a terrible moment of silence where she hopes that the floor will open up and swallow her whole. Malcolm is silent for so long that she’s left to wonder if he even heard her. He takes a thoughtful sip, aerating the wine through his teeth.</p><p>“Well. You must have plans, right? What are you still sitting here with me for?” His tone isn’t carrying the same conviviality as his words. “Go on. Go home. I’ll close up shop for you.”</p><p>“That’s - not. There aren’t any plans,” She shoves a chip in her mouth, chewing to stop herself from tearing up. It wasn’t until she actually <em>told</em> anyone that the pain started to set in. The deep ache of being ignored. “Nobody <em>bloody </em>remembered. I kept hoping - but then. No. There aren’t any plans. <em>This</em> is my birthday dinner, apparently. Chips and fucking - well. Really <em>nice </em>champagne, actually.”<br/>
<br/>
“You've got kids, right? A whole gaggle of ‘em, Terri was saying,” He offers, and the slight pity in his voice makes her want to gag. "Surely, one of them -"<br/>
<br/>
“Four of them. Four children and a husband,” she bites out before taking a hefty swig of wine. Malcolm winces at the number. “And not a single one of them remembered.”<br/>
<br/>
“Christ - Nic’la," He doesn’t apologize or fill her with false hope and excuses. Instead, he reaches for the bottle and refills her glass. "What <em>fucking </em>tossers.”</p><p>She had hoped this morning for a card or a cake or breakfast in bed - but instead she gets whatever this is. A companionable silence of chips and champagne.<br/>
<br/>
And honestly? It’s actually kind of nice.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quick notes:</p><p>A Durand is a particularly fancy variety of wine opener used for old bottles with possibly fragile corks.  It features a corkscrew in the middle and two blades down the side, similar in style to an Ah-So or a Butler's Friend. Sabrage is a technique of opening sparkling wines with a sword or knife or other large sharp object. It's extremely showy and kind of pointless - but I can see Jamie getting excited about it nonetheless.</p><p>I'm not entirely certain a bottle of sparkling wine would actually <i>explode</i>. But the concept is a sort of urban legend among industry folk. People always swear they saw it happen to someone once.</p><p>The wine Malcolm is drinking is the Tarlant "Zero" Brut Nature Champagne. It's a grower's champagne - I was going to go off on a tangent here extolling the virtues of vigneron vs maison production in champagne but it really didn't fit. Regardless, this particular bottle feels very Malcolm-y. The Brut Nature indicates that absolutely no sugar is added in the final stage of production - making it extremely crisp and vibrant and a little <i>too</i> much. Just like Malcolm.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. viniculture, viticulture.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a hole in her stocking. Just wide enough for her big toe to slip through with its chipped mauve polish. She marvels at it, ankles resting on the arm of the sofa. It’s an anchor - something to grasp at to stop the room from spinning. Not since before Ben came along has Nicola been this drunk. Six, maybe seven years ago. Some Christmas party for James’s office. There was an open bar - she still can’t smell peppermint schnapps without gagging. It was the last time she and James had fought, <em> really </em>fought. It was also the last time she had sex without thinking about the laundry or the grocery budget or the last time the car had an oil change.</p><p>A thin sheen of sweat coats her collar bone - her skin lies hot and her stomach quivers as her body fights to metabolize the alcohol. The first sensations of a migraine have started to creep up the base of her skull - reflecting on her water consumption throughout the evening, she comes to the conclusion that she’s most likely <em> extremely </em>dehydrated.</p><p>What does it matter, anyhow. Clumsily reaching for the wine bottle on the coffee table, she pours a hefty portion into the ‘world class mum’ mug the kids gave her several Christmases ago. She’s burned enough bridges today. A little self-flagellation might be required. Her fingertips rest for just a moment on the scribbled note taped to the bottle.</p><p>She wonders if she really <em>never</em> said his name. And if that means anything, anyway.</p><p>It is then that James turns on the lamp.</p>
<hr/><p>No one mentioned her birthday. Nothing from James or the kids in the weeks since. She could accept that, simply bury it deep within herself and move on, if things didn’t just keep getting worse. The thing about working in an industry that primarily operates when everyone else is out of work - is that it grows incredibly isolating. There is an inversion that occurs, a complete deviation of routine and life cycle from the rest of the population. Nicola is at work while everyone else is at home - and vice versa. Frankly, she’s been seeing more of Terri than she is of her own husband. She could pinpoint the last three times Ollie and Emma slept together with much more accuracy than the last time Katie saw a boy. Nicola is watching herself become a ghost in her own home.</p><p>James barely speaks to her the whole morning - she tries to bring up how lonely she has become, suggesting that they go out for brunch over the weekend since she’s free in the mornings. But he merely grunts and shrugs. An attempt to cook real breakfast for her children goes spectacularly awry when Rosie refuses to eat her eggs. The explanation she provides - that they aren’t the way Nastya makes them - cuts her to the bone. Rosie used to <em> love </em>her eggs. And now they, like Nicola, simply don’t fit. Relics of a past life.</p><p>She allows Rosie an easy out, providing her with an orange and some toast instead. Ben - sweet little thing that he is - gamely scarfs down both his portion <em> and </em>his sister’s with a smile.</p><p>“Mum,”  He spears a chunk on his fork and examines it carefully. “Where do eggs come from?”</p><p>“Chickens, stupid,” Ella teases while putting her plate in the sink.</p><p>“No. I mean - where do the chickens <em> live</em>?” His words are garbled around a mouthful of food. “In the city or in the country? Is it far from here?” </p><p>“What a <em> wonderful </em> question, Ben.” Now that she’s comfortable at work, competent in managing the day to day, Nicola has been looking for a way to make an <em> actual change</em>. Something that she can do to improve the restaurant. Something uniquely her own. And Ben’s innocent question has set the wheels in motion in her mind. “You know what? I’m going to have an answer for you by the end of today. I’m going to find those chickens.”</p><p>She spends the morning mulling it over - turning the idea this way and that. By the time she’s on her way in she has a mountain of ideas, practically bursting at the seams. A farm to table initiative - researching where the foods they eat actually come from, creating a menu based around local farms and seasonal foodstuffs. “Healthy Choices”, she fancies calling it. A pitch has already formed in her brain - how exactly she’s going to explain this to Mannion and how they can approach Pearson about it together. Unable to articulate why, she’s relatively certain that Malcolm will back her proposition as well.</p><p>Terri is the first person she sees. Nicola is about to tell her, to launch into her prepared diatribe when she looks at Terri’s feet. The vibrant turquoise and magenta trainers at the end of her legs catch her completely off-guard.</p><p>“What - you aren’t going to actually <em> wear </em> those all shift are you?” Nicola gestures at the shoes. “I thought we <em> talked </em>about this. Get a pair of Dansko’s or something if you’re having that much trouble. I want you and the host staff looking professional, not like I’m running a daycare center. Now -”</p><p>She tries again to explain, to show someone her really <em> great </em>idea. But then Ollie bursts through the door, Emma following tightly behind.</p><p>“You’re so <em> fucking </em>immature - it’s like I’m dating a fucking seven year old,” she shouts at him.  The look of exhaustion on both of their faces is indicative of a day’s long row.</p><p>“Well - one would have to ask themselves what sort of person dates a fucking seven year old then, wouldn’t they?” He sneers, blustering past the host desk and into the restaurant. “I mean that really raises a lot of questions about <em> your fucking character </em>-” </p><p>Nicola takes a moment to regroup, pulling the small notebook out of her purse that she’s been jotting down outlines in all morning. She inhales, about to attempt an explanation of her idea for the third time. Because someone is going to listen to her today. Someone is going to hear all about Nicola Murray and her “Healthy Choices.”</p><p>The door opens again.</p><p>“God <em> fucking - </em>what?” She grumbles under her breath.</p><p>“Hello, humble mortals - worthless peons. Bow to your new goddess of the grape.” His voice echoes into the restaurant, a level of enthusiasm radiating off of him that Nicola has never seen. Malcolm is actually smiling as he ushers Sam in before him. She grins politely and waves at Nicola and Terri. “Sam Cassidy has just been certified at the Advanced level by the Court of Master Sommeliers this afternoon. You lot better commence with the groveling.”</p><p>“Well done, Sam,” Nicola offers, genuinely excited for her. Even if the announcement trod all over her attempt at speaking. Again. “Congratulations -”</p><p>“Nicola - Something’s happened.” Will she never be allowed to complete a thought? Is she doomed to be interrupted <em> forever</em>? Furiously tapping at the keyboard, Terri stares at the computer screen with an expression of utter terror. “Something very bad has happened.”</p><p>“What, Terri? What’s happened now?” Resigning herself to never being heard ever again, Nicola turns to her with a sigh. Nothing she has to say matters to anyone, apparently.</p><p>“There’s been - well, I don’t know. The reservations are <em> gone</em>,” Terri’s voice shifts up an octave, gripped with panic. “Tonight’s bookings - they’ve all just disappeared.”</p><p>“What on earth do you mean?” She bends over Terri’s shoulder - and sure enough, where there was once a full schedule of Saturday night bookings there is now nothing. A completely blank slate. Zero. Zilch. “Oh my god. They’re all gone. How? Terri, what did you <em> do?</em>”</p><p>Malcolm halts his cheerful murmur with Sam, catching on to the notion that something is afoot. “What’s happened? Why do you all look like you’ve just shit your trousers?”</p><p>“Malcolm it’s - fuck,” Nicola breaths, a hand to her forehead. She prays that for once the adage about messengers and getting shot doesn’t hold up. “There’s been a massive, irretrievable reservation data loss. It’s gone. The whole of tonight’s bookings. I haven’t the slightest fucking clue what happened or what’s going to happen.”</p><p>“This is a joke right?” Crossing to the host desk, Malcolm’s voice drops into a threatening whisper. “This is some kind of fucked-off sort of terrible piece of humor, yeah? Do you mean to tell me - shit. How many? How many were there before it all fucking <em> blipped </em>out of existence?”</p><p>“A hundred thirty - hundred forty? Maybe?” The room spins slightly - Nicola fancies that the floor underneath her feet might not be solid.</p><p>“Maybe? You don’t fucking know? You were just looking at the screen! It was right there!” Gone is the whisper, replaced by the usual blustering roar. “God, you have the object permanence of a shittin’ newborn. Would you like to have a go at a game of fucking peak-a-boo? If I want you to leave me alone can I just hide my soddin’ face behind my hands? <em> Oh no, has anyone seen Malcolm? He was right there!</em>” It’s the voice he uses to mock her - pitching it up and affecting some posh accent that doesn’t even <em> sound </em> like her - that really shoves her over the edge.</p><p>“I didn’t <em> fucking </em> do it!” She explodes with more energy than she anticipated, matching Malcolm’s volume. Involuntarily, she stomps one of her feet. The crude reaction makes her feel like a child. “I was just standing here and Terri did god-only-knows what. For all we know it’s a system wide issue! Why do you <em> fucking </em>blame me for things?”</p><p>“Because you’re the <em> fucking </em>manager, pet! Or did you forget that while you’ve been walking around here playing mum? Step up and do your damn job - lately you’ve been actin’ like a glorified fuckin’ babysitter.”</p><p>It is at that moment that Glenn, in his infinite wisdom and excellent timing, decides to walk in. Looking like a proverbial black cloud, he attempts to storm past them all without speaking. But there’s too many people crammed into the foyer - Nicola and Terri see him straight away, and Sam and Malcolm are blocking his path.</p><p>“Why are you <em> late, </em>Glenn?” Malcolm’s comments about her place in all of this have galvanized her - perhaps a little too much. Nicola hurls her question more unkindly than she would’ve liked.</p><p>“I - I was handling something,” He tries to sidestep around Malcolm, when Sam steps forward and whispers something in his ear.</p><p>“Sam tells me you were sittin’ for the Advanced today?” Malcolm wheels on him - his ability to simply move on while Nicola is still grappling with her anger, sickens her. “Why didn’t you tell us for fuck’s sake? We could have helped you study -”</p><p>“Because - I didn’t want <em> your </em> help, Malcolm.” Glenn, for the first time that any of them have experienced, is actually <em> yelling. </em> Nicola didn’t know that he was even capable of it. “I didn’t want you talking down to me and mocking me for even trying. And I failed! Okay? I failed. Now let me do my <em> fucking </em>job today, please.”</p><p>He stalks off without another word, leaving a massive vacuum of silence in his wake. All that is left now is for them to attack the problem at hand. The only way forward through this - the only kind of damage control that they can formulate is to simply not allow any new bookings. Cancellations are fine - but no adjustments to party number either. They just have to continuously tell everyone that they are fully booked. And just hope that whoever shows up claiming to have a reservation is doing so under good faith. Regardless, Nicola is certain that it’s going to be another shitshow. Another tally mark in the “Nicola Murray’s Cock-Ups” column.</p><p>It is with this attitude that Nicola accepts the first drink that Glenn discreetly palms to her, two hours into the service from hell. She pauses at the bar, ducking away from another one of Malcolm’s tantrums directed at one of the teenagers working the dessert station who almost <em> certainly </em>deserves it. Without a word, Glenn slides her a small glass of bubbling liquid, matching the one he has hidden on a shelf below the counter.  It’s cloying and disgusting - she nearly spits it out the second that it touches her lips.</p><p>“That’s awful,” she grumbles, taking another gulp in spite of herself. “What is it?”</p><p>“Vodka and Red Bull.” Glenn downs the rest of his in a swallow. There’s a deep set apathy in his face - keeping the test a secret only to fail and have everyone find out in such a spectacularly uncouth fashion seems to have caused something inside him to wither up and die. “It’ll loosen you up and keep you awake. Trust me. You look like you need it.”</p><p>“Why do people keep telling me that? Here, Nicola, have a coffee. Here, have a glass of wine. Here, have a fucking valium. You <em> look like you need it,</em>” she slams down her drink, the carbonation making the back of her nose burn. The concern from everyone she works with, the constant assumption that she is not <em> okay </em>coupled with the complete imperceptivity from her family is tearing her to bits. “Do I really look that bloody miserable all the time?”</p><p>“Do you really want me to answer that?” Glenn tuts. He walks away from her, crossing past the kitchen doors to grab several spools of printer paper from the cabinet above the computers. It is at that precise moment that Malcolm bursts through the outbound door, colliding solidly with Glenn’s face.</p><p>“Fucking - what are you <em> doing </em>just walking past the doors like that? Just fucking - watch where you’re going you fuckin’ reject,” Malcolm barks at him, thoroughly unbothered by the blood pouring from Glenn’s nose. He flails a hand towards Nicola in a crude gesture. “And you - do you have nothin’ better to do than just stand there and fuckin’ stare? Go put out one of the many raging fires currently burning all around us, you useless beige sack.”</p><p>Without a word, Nicola grabs for the box of facial tissue on the shelf and shoves a fistful under Glenn’s nose. Satisfied that he isn’t going to bleed to death, she turns on her heels and storms off towards the host stand.</p><p>After an hour or so of helping Terri greet guests and seat tables, Lucio comes to her about some old woman who keeps complaining about the air conditioning. She insists - despite <em> multiple </em>adjustments by Lucio and Nicola herself - that it is far too cold. That the air is blowing directly on her, and that she isn’t paying to freeze to death tonight. Nicola has simply run out of fucks to give. In a fit of impulsive annoyance, she removes her own thick, knit cardigan and slings it over the woman’s shoulders. She doesn’t need it anyway, Nicola notes to herself as she traipses back to the bar. Her anger is keeping her warm enough this evening.</p><p>Nodding at Glenn, he pours her another drink. She notes this time that it is decidedly more vodka than it is Red Bull. Sullenly, she busies herself by helping the waitstaff polish glassware. Her mood must be readily apparent - no one approaches her to make small talk like they usually would. So she silently polishes one complete rack. Then another. She is halfway through a third rack - the nice Burgundy glasses that she can fit her whole hand in - when there is a terrible crash behind her. Elizabeth has walked an entire tray of desserts into the unyielding <em> in </em> door instead of the out. Sighing, she takes her time putting her current glass away on the way shelf, ensuring that it is set down safely. This is apparently <em> far </em>too slow for Malcolm’s taste, as he comes rushing around the corner to investigate the sound. </p><p>“Please - by all <em> means </em>just stand there with a fuckin’ glass in your hand. It’s not like there isn’t anything more important to do,” He snarls. Something inside Nicola gives way. The last fiber of patience she possessed snaps clean in two.</p><p>“You’re a <em> cunt</em>, you know that?” Her voice is low and cruel. There is absolutely no way of playing this off - of making this seem like part of their usual banter.</p><p>“What - what did you just say?” </p><p>Seeing Malcolm dumbstruck is truly a rare treat. The drinks are catching up to her a bit faster than she had realized. She swallows thickly, determined to continue. To finally have someone <em> hear </em>her today. He leans far too close to her face, his eyes searching hers. Her lip twitches, halfway into a grin before she can wrestle it back down. “A real fucking piece of work.”</p><p>“Are you,” he mirthlessly laughs to himself, running his tongue across his lower lip. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”</p><p>“Don’t make this about me - you drink at work!” Leaning back against the wall, she crosses her arms like a sullen little girl. “You’ve <em> given </em>me drinks. Here. At work!”</p><p>“Not - not like this. Jesus. Upstairs, Nicola.” His voice cracks slightly on her name, a hint of sadness creeping through the anger and surprise. “Now. I’d take you out in the alley but it’s fuckin’ raining.”</p><p>The stairs are tricky to maneuver - she almost slips on the last one but he steadies her with a hand on her back. The walk is performed entirely in silence - neither of them speak until they cross the upstairs dining room and into the wine cellar, door closing behind them. It’s colder in here than the rest of the restaurant, temperature-controlled to maintain the wine, and the shift in sensation makes her shiver. A thin layer of goose-flesh erupts on her arms and she rubs at them instinctively.</p><p>“Have you lost your mind? Has your brain gone fucking <em> botrytised</em>? Tonight has been an absolute shitshow - stem to stern - and you’re busy knocking a few back with Glengarry Glen <em> sauced! </em> Are you genuinely <em> trying </em> to get sacked? Is that what this is? Some kind of fuckin’ cry for help - some kind of midlife crisis - ” He goes for the usual bollocking tone, with his hand waving and snapping and snarling. All sound and fury. But it doesn’t work on her - not this time. Nicola is too far round the bend to be intimidated by the display.</p><p>“Why are you so bloody hard on me? <em> Why</em>?” The question comes out as more of a plea than she would like. She can’t remember the last time she was this direct with anyone - this raw edged and vulnerable. “You don’t - you don’t ride Terri or Ollie or fucking Glenn half as hard as you do me. Why? What the <em> fuck </em>did I possibly do to you?"</p><p>“What did you - why would I expend the energy or breath on a complete and total waste of space like Ollie? Do you really think that there’s any salvaging that festering pile of rejected Jim Henson creations in an ill-fitted suit? Would any amount of bollocking actually make a difference?” He holds out his hands, begging for her to follow his point, desperate for her to see things the way he does. “I’m hard on you because <em> you can fucking take it. </em> And because - god fuckin’ forbid - you’re actually worth my time!”</p><p>“Oh, fuck <em> off</em>.” It’s not that she doesn’t see - she understands perfectly. And it’s that understanding that infuriates her even further. “What, you think you’re Simon Cowell, do you? You think you’re Gordon <em> fucking </em> Ramsey? Here to chisel me down and then build me back up again?”</p><p>“Look,” He turns from her, slamming the flat of his palm against a wall. She is reminded briefly of a quarrel she had with an old boyfriend - one of those lovers spats that ends in either tears or a brutal shagging. Nicola pushes the thought away as he swings around to face her. “Basic fucking viticulture, okay? Wine-making 101. You don’t want your grapes to grow <em> easy</em>. You don’t want ‘em all fat and fecund and abundant because that’s how you get shit wine. You want to stress ‘em out! You want the grapes to struggle and claw their way out of the dirt and into the sun. I’m trying to fuckin’ - I’m trying to cultivate you, you lousy fuckin’ cunt. If you’d just take my advice and let me fuckin’ help you-”</p><p>The absolute hubris. The sheer fucking gall.</p><p>“I never asked for your <em>help.</em>” Her sanity begins to fray as her fingers tangle in her hair. There is a real sense that they are entering uncharted territory here. That Nicola is going through a door that once opened cannot be shut. “I don’t want to be bloody - fucking - cultivated? What the <em>fuck</em> does that even - did it ever occur to you that I don’t <em>want </em>to be changed? This isn’t my life - this isn’t my dream job or what-the-fuck-ever. I just want to come to work and make my pittance and go home -”</p><p>“Yeah, go home to that fuckin’ useless piece of shit husband who doesn’t even know when your birthday is? The one leaving you so chronically unfulfilled -”</p><p>“That’s a new low, even for you,” Nicola recoils, horrified. Never in their time together has she heard him sound so vicious. “You take that <em> back, </em> Malcolm. You take that the <em> fuck </em> back. That is my <em> husband. </em>That is the father of my children -”</p><p>“Is he now? He’s so important to you?” He snarls the words out, hurling them with surgical precision as he advances on her. She notices as he closes in that they're both struggling for air, gasping like they've just ran a marathon. “Because you realize - you’ve never once mentioned his fuckin’ name. Never <em>once</em> has that pertinent bit of information crossed your lips in my presence.”</p><p>They stand mere inches apart, the only noise in the room the grating hum of the air conditioning. Determined to not cry, she averts her gaze to the small red and gold pin on his lapel. Something within him shifts, his shoulders drooping as he steps back.</p><p>“You should probably - you should probably go home, Nicola,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand at his jaw. “You didn’t drive here did you?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “I - I took a cab.”</p><p>“That’s good just - take a few minutes up here and pull yourself together, yeah? I’ll close up tonight. I’ll tell Terri that one of your kids is sick and you had to go home.” He pauses on his way out, his hand lingering on the door knob. “Just leave quietly, okay? I don’t want - I don’t want anyone seeing you like this.”</p><p>And then he is gone.</p><p>Nicola waits like he suggested. She’s trembling all over - and as much as she wants to believe that it’s because of the chill to the air, she’s well aware that isn’t it. When she is certain that she can speak without bursting into tears, she makes her way downstairs with her tail between her legs. Never once does she see him, not even from the corner of her eye.</p><p>Terri calls to her as she passes the host stand. Reaching beneath the desk she pulls out a bottle of wine, the label all in Greek. There’s a small bow around the neck in butcher’s twine, no doubt pilfered from the kitchen, and a folded piece of paper taped to the body.</p><p>“Malcolm left it here for you? It’s some wine with pine resin in it - he mentioned something about how much you like herbal tinctures and things,” Terri shrugs. “Sorry about your kid. I hope they're alright.”</p><p>Nicola can’t bring herself to look at the note, holding the bottle between her knees through the silent cab ride home. She’s a little too loud coming in the house, clumsily making her way to the kitchen and digging through the drawers for a corkscrew. The first vessel she can find to drink from is a ridiculous novelty mug her children bought for her. “World Class Mum” it reads, in a garish rainbow font. She can’t remember the last time that sentiment rang true.</p><p>Halfway through her first generous glass, she gains the courage to look at the note. Written, in Malcolm’s sprawling jagged hand, is “Happy Belated, Cunt.”</p><p>It hits her with the force of an oncoming train. Glenn’s knowing smile, telling her the way in which Malcolm apologizes. The glasses of wine - sitting there eating chips on her birthday - the fact that he thinks of her as being worth his time. Malcolm Tucker is her <em>friend</em>. Probably the best one that she has. And for all she knows, there’s a good chance he will never speak to her again. She just torpedoed that entire relationship with caffeine and grain alcohol.</p><p>So she drinks. And drinks. Choking down the liquid apology that she doesn’t really deserve. When she hears James shuffling about upstairs, awoken by her late entrance, there’s a genuine hope in her heart that he will come downstairs. That he will confront her and they can finally <em> fight </em> the way that she wants them to. That he will finally really <em>look</em> at her.</p><p>But instead, he merely trudges down the stairs and quietly flips on a light.</p><p>“You’re home late,” he states, matter-of-fact. Pausing at the coffee table, he bends to examine the scrap of paper, pulling his bathrobe tightly closed. “Hm. Who gave this to you?”</p><p>“Coworker. Malcolm.” She wields the name in the hopes that it will ignite <em> something </em>in her husband. That some form of jealousy will bubble up through the placid surface.</p><p>“What kind of man gives a bottle of wine to a married woman as a gift?” The question gives her hope. Maybe James will do something after all.</p><p>“A sommelier.” Her tongue thick with booze, she struggles around the word. She giggles at how strangely it sounds.</p><p>“Makes sense,” He shrugs, turning for the stairs. Nicola’s heart drops - she is left distinctly unfulfilled. “I’m off to bed. You should drink some water - you know how bad of a headache you get.”</p><p>And just like that - Nicola is alone again in a dark quiet house.</p><p>She never did find out where those eggs came from.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I realized at some point working the last two chapters that - while I initially intended to write this story as a light-hearted fluff piece - it is going in an entirely different direction than I anticipated. Thus - this chapter is a touch more bleak than I expected. Whoops.</p><p>The Court of Master Sommeliers has four levels of certification - Introductory, Certified, Advanced and Master. The levels are signified by different-coloured pins. Malcolm's red pin would place him at the highest level: Master Sommelier. The wine that he gifts Nicola at the end of the chapter is a Retsina - a greek white wine produced by adding small pieces of Aleppo pine resin during fermentation. It has a very herbal smell and taste - kind of like menthol and rosemary with a little lemon. Very thematically similar to the things that Nicola enjoys.</p><p>Nicola getting shithoused on vodka &amp; red bull was inspired by a tweet from Rebecca Front that reads:</p><blockquote>
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    <br/>
    <span class="small">Nicola Murray would like it to be known that she once had a Vodka and Red Bull at a disco. She was twatted off her bonce for 26 hours. She is ashamed of this incident, but has used it as a learning tool. She has avoided any but the most routine kind of stimulation ever since.</span>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. joyeux anniversaire (de marriage).</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <span class="small">
    <b> Tim W.<br/>
Ruislip, London<br/>
☆ </b>
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    <span class="small">dos was the worst meal i’ve had in YEARS. such a disappointment!!! not like no. 10 at all. the niçoise was so salty I couldn’t even eat it. and then they were out of the bouillabaisse - their most famous dish. I had been looking forward to it all day. when the sole en papillote was delivered - I cannot stress this enough - it was LIKE. WET. CARDBOARD. my wife actually burst into tears. despite this, the sour-faced woman who I can only guess was the manager, DID NOT offer help or condolences. I could forgive all of this if it wasn’t for the RUDE and CONDESCENDING wine steward. he refused to recommend a cabernet to go with the sole - instead telling me to try another wine altogether. what happened to the customer is always right? so sad to see a place fall so LOW. GIVE THIS PLACE A WIDE BERTH. </span>
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</blockquote><p>“Rude, condescending wine steward,” Nicola mutters to herself with a smirk, rereading the abysmal Yelp review that Ollie pulled up for her. It really hits all the high points - this fictitious bouillabaisse, Nicola’s characteristically less than exuberant countenance <em>and</em> her coworker’s general state of being. She’s certain that Malcolm will find it as entertaining as she does, but she hasn’t had the chance to show it to him. Jamie has been dispatched to them as a replacement this evening. Ten is hosting a private dinner for some minor Italian dignitary and Malcolm has insisted on working it himself. At least, that’s what Jamie’s told her.</p><p>The whole thing seems decidedly <em>off</em>. Never has Malcolm shown the slightest bit of doubt in Sam’s ability to handle something like this by herself, especially given the added assurance of her new certification. This leaves Nicola rather convinced that he is avoiding her personally after last night’s row. Which is fair - she would be avoiding herself if she could. Malcolm doesn’t need to see just how guilty she feels today, compounded by the wretched hangover.</p><p>Her tea has gone cold, the paper cup barely giving any warmth to her palms as she rides out another spell of nausea. This half-cup of Lemon Zinger and a single slice of toast scrounged from the kitchen staff are all she’s managed to choke down her gullet today. She could have sworn that Ollie actually grimaced when she walked in the door.</p><p>“God, Nicola. You look so exhausted,” Terri coos sympathetically, shuffling a stack of invoices to file away. “Did your kid keep you up late? Which one was it?”</p><p>“Um. Rosie.” The question catches Nicola unprepared - she should have developed a better lie for her abrupt departure the evening prior. But her little pity party and subsequent black out distracted her from such common sense. It doesn't matter. The lack of elaboration doesn’t phase Terri, who just accepts the statement at face value, bending to rummage through her purse.</p><p>“Poor tot. Oh, by the by - happy anniversary. Congratulations and all that. It’s next Friday, yeah?”</p><p>“No. Far from it,” Nicola is left thoroughly perplexed. “It’s in June. Should be our seventeenth. What gave you that idea?”</p><p>“I was poking through the reservations at Ten. It’s fun - they get celebrities sometimes.  I like to see if they put silly notes in - you know, Piers Morgan hates dill or Jeremy Clarkson <em>has </em>to sit with his back to a wall or something,” Terri pauses, expecting a laugh. None comes. So she continues. “Fine. I’m a snoop. Lock me up, send me to the hague. Anyway - I saw a reservation for you. It’s under your husband’s name. Your home phone and everything. Anniversary dinner.”</p><p>“Can you <em>show </em>me this reservation, Terri?” Perhaps it’s the hangover clouding her mental faculties. Nothing about this makes sense. She’d chalk it up to James Murray being an exceedingly common combination of names - but Terri already cross-referenced it with her number. Reaching over her shoulder, Terri pulls up the booking system for Ten and clicks through to Friday night. She scrolls, settling on an eight o’clock reservation. Murray, James. Two guests. The callback number <em>is </em>their home phone. Terri clicks on it, bringing up the additional details. The special occasion note confirms that it is an anniversary dinner. But then, Terri scrolls slightly down to the additional requests field. In that box is typed:</p>
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    <span class="small">“Flowers requested for table. Will call to confirm selection day of. Guest requests card at table with candles. To read ‘Happy First Anniversary, Olivia.’”</span>
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</blockquote><p>Well isn’t that something.</p><p>“Oh.<em> Oh,</em>” Terri breathes, understanding at once the total gaffe that she has made. “Nicola I am so, <em> so </em> terribly sorry. I should’ve read the whole - oh <em> god </em> I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Nicola is at first at a complete loss for words - she opens and closes her mouth, but no sound is produced. A chill runs over her skin and the salivary glands in the back of her mouth erupt. Her reflexes are almost too slow but she manages to pull the wastebasket from under the desk just in time, heaving violently. The vomit is mostly bile and tea, and as she stares at the horrifying color she remarks to herself that perhaps Lemon Zinger was not the best choice.</p><p>Terri grimaces. “Nicola - are you -”</p><p>“‘I’m fine - if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go clean this up.” She pushes her hair away, matted to her forehead with sweat. The hangover and the shock have done a number on her equilibrium - she sways a bit when she stands, closing her eyes to keep from throwing up again. Letting her legs do the thinking for her, she takes the soiled wastebasket and sets off to the back. Before she’s aware of what she’s doing, she passes through the kitchen and into the alleyway and simply hurls the entire thing into the dumpster.</p><p>In a state of near somnambulism, she finds herself back at the host desk grabbing for her purse.</p><p>“Where’s - where’s the rubbish bin?” Terri asks dumbly. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“It’s gone. I’ll buy a new one.” Nicola’s voice sounds alien to her own ears. The emotions haven’t kicked in yet - her consciousness has retreated into some sort of protective dissociative fugue. “Jamie’s here, right? I’m going to - I don’t know. Tell him I’ll be back before the pop hits. I’m sure he can handle it.”</p><p>If Terri protests, Nicola doesn’t hear it, already on her way out the door. She doesn’t know how long she walks or how far, carelessly weaving through the evening crowd. Something inside of her is yearning for distance - maybe if she just <em> keeps walking </em> she’ll be free. Free of James and the restaurant and her children and the tug in her gut when she thinks about Malcolm’s note - the one that she carefully folded and tucked into the inner pocket of her purse. Her body still recovering from the night before, this course of action loses its appeal rather abruptly. She finds herself winded and sore in front of a bookshop.</p><p>Not the kind Nicola would like, the sort of small space with uneven shelves bursting with battered paperbacks, floors that creak and - if she’s <em> really </em>lucky - a fat and dour-faced cat. The kind that she frequented in her university days. No - this is one of those garish large chain stores, with the requisite attached coffee shop and generous selection of toys and plastic collectibles. The fluorescent lighting makes her temples throb, anesthetized and inoffensive jazz piano playing softly on the overhead speakers.</p><p>But it’s somewhere to <em> be</em>. As she wanders past the displays of cookbooks and calendars, vinyl figures and hobby guides, she comes to a table of bargain priced novels. A selection of texts primarily required by schools - mostly classics. One book in particular, slender and marked down to a very low price catches her eye. <em> Ethan Frome</em>. Picking it up and examining the painting of a wintery landscape printed across the cover, Nicola recalls very acutely the experience of reading the book as a young girl. How frustrated she grew, how despairing at how trapped the characters allowed themselves to become.</p><p>It’s too on the nose. The universe must be playing a cruel joke.</p><p>With a bone-deep sigh, she searches for an empty aisle and takes her phone from her purse.</p><p>The line rings several times before she is ultimately transferred to voicemail. After two attempts she gives up, acquiescing to leaving a message.</p><p>“James - it’s me. I need to talk to you, when I get home. <em> We </em> need to talk. Please wait up for me. It’s about Olivia.”<br/>
<br/>
Giving the book in her hands a second look, she decides that perhaps bringing something that tragic and metaphorical into her home on <em> today </em>of all days isn’t the best idea. And she can’t simply stand in this place forever, either. Eventually she <em>will </em>have to go back to work. She abandons it on the nearest shelf and makes her way back out onto the street.</p><p>It’s dark by the time she leaves, the sun having set while she was inside. A quick check of her phone tells her that she’s been gone for a little over an hour. There’s a text from Terri asking if she’s okay. Nothing yet from James. The walk back to the building is shorter than her original journey - being aware of where she is going allows her to take a more direct route. Thankfully, they aren’t busy when she returns. No one has set fire to the restaurant. Everything is fine. Nicola may feel like her heart is attempting to vacate her body through her esophagus. But everything is fine.</p><p>Someone is being loudly torn to shreds in the server station - most likely Glenn, from the frequent digs at age and sexual orientation - and for a brief moment she fancies that it’s Malcolm’s voice. The same thick, slurring brogue and over-the-top violent imagery. But when she comes into view, it is only Jamie. The volume of her disappointment startles her - in what way would Malcolm’s presence improve her situation?</p><p>Ultimately, it’s a slow night and with someone as competent as Jamie here there isn’t much that Nicola <em> needs </em>to do. So she sets about cleaning. It’s been her coping mechanism as long as she can remember - when Nicola is truly bereft, she cleans. Wiping down shelves and containers, reorganizing sugar packets and condiment bottles. She’s just thrown out a mountain of old menu bits and receipts that were piled under the server computer when she notices her left hand.</p><p>Her ring is gone. She’s lost a bit of weight lately, running up and down flights of stairs and whatnot, and has noticed that it’s grown loose around her finger. It’s been on the back of her mind for the past few weeks, this need to get the damn thing resized before it falls off, but she just never made the effort. And now - it’s <em> gone. </em></p><p>Before she knows it, Nicola is elbow deep in the garbage can by the dish pit. There’s coffee grinds and god-only-knows what smeared on her latex gloves - she frantically pushes aside layer and layer of refuse. But no ring. She’s lost her <em> fucking </em>ring. The panic sets in - her breaths shortening to useless gasps - and then there is a hand on her back. Gently guiding her into the walk-in and shutting the door.</p><p>“What the fuck’s wrong with you, pet? You’re comin’ apart at the seams on me here.”</p><p>Blinking, Nicola comes to the startling realization that her savior is <em> Jamie. </em> She stammers out an attempt to tell him that she’s fine, that nothing’s wrong, <em> really. </em>The truth spews out instead.</p><p>“I can’t find my ring and - my husband’s cheating on me.”</p><p>“Well, yeah. I know that - Terri fuckin’ told me the second you toddled out of the door,” Jamie chuckles to himself. “Terri said - hang on, can you take those putrid fuckin’ gloves off? They reek of human shit and ground lamb. Hell, that might <em> be </em> human shit and ground lamb.”</p><p>He holds an expectant hand out and waits for Nicola to peel off the offending bits of latex, then steps out and tosses them away.</p><p>“Hang on - Terri <em> told </em> you?” Nicola pouts as he shuts the door behind him. “Fucking cow.”</p><p>Jamie reaches behind her into a box full of pears. He takes one out and wipes it against his shirt. “She told me not to say anything - if that makes it the least bit less shite. She was worried for you, for fuck’s sake. Christ, I’m fuckin ‘worried about you and I don’t even <em> know </em> you!”</p><p>The door swings open, Phil ducking his head in.</p><p>“Get the <em> fuck out, </em> you fuckin’ spindly-legged shite,” Jamie explodes around a mouthful of fruit. “What? Like you’ve never had a fuckin’ meltdown in the walk-in before.”</p><p>Phil nervously slinks past him. “I just - I just needed to grab a few aubergines.”</p><p>“Take ‘em and <em> go </em> before I shove an aubergine so far up your left nostril I scramble your piddly little brains and turn you incontinent,” he growls, picking up several of the vegetables and forcing them into Phil’s arms. They wait until the door is closed before continuing.</p><p>“Now,” Nicola returns to the matter at hand. “If you <em> know </em> about James, then why bother asking me what’s wrong?”</p><p>“I don’t know - with him being such a fuckin’ sentient hemorrhoid of a human being I thought you’d be happy for the airtight excuse to get rid of him.” He gestures with the mangled pear. “Fuck - you can prove him at fault for a divorce now.”</p><p>Is she that truly <em> naive</em>? How is it that everyone around her could judge the man better than she could?</p><p>“How do you - how do you know <em> anything </em> about my husband?”</p><p>Jamie looks at his feet - whatever excuse he’s about to provide her is an absolute lie. “People talk. It’s like being in a fuckin’ comprehensive. Can’t even stick a finger in a girl’s snatch without it showing up scrawled on a lavatory wall the next day.”</p><p>“<em>People </em> meaning Malcolm, yeah?” Jamie shrugs. It’s all but a confirmation. “Shit. I didn’t even <em> think </em> about the divorce - you don’t know a good lawyer do you?”</p><p>“You should ask Malcolm. Get whoever his wife used,” he shakes his head, features contorted in loathing. “Ruthless fuckin’ cunt. Gutted him.”</p><p>This is a revelation - Nicola can barely keep the surprise out of her voice. “Malcolm was married?”</p><p>“What, you think he’s some totally sexless ascetic monk?” Jamie asks, leaning out of the door for a moment to rid himself of the fruit’s core.</p><p>“Well - no. I guess not.” He’s right - the assumption is not only foolish but thoroughly self-absorbed. “What happened?”</p><p>“What <em> always </em> happens - work. Malcolm - fuck. I shouldn’t be tellin’ you - you <em> can’t </em> tell him we talked about this,” He stops to search her eyes, Nicola giving him a curt nod in response. “Malcolm put a bit more effort into his work than he did her. She got jealous.”</p><p>The entire concept - that Malcolm could not only love someone but <em> marry them </em> is incomprehensible. “Has he - I don’t know - is there anyone else? Since then, I mean.”</p><p>“I mean, he <em> fucks </em> if that’s what you’re asking,” Jamie smiles his toothy and uneven snarl. “But not serious - no. Not got the time.”</p><p>“What about Sam?” Might as well ask the question while Jamie is feeling loquacious. The question is so ludicrous that he recoils.</p><p>“Sam? Are you mental?” He shudders at the thought. “That’s just fuckin’ incestuous - she’s like a niece to him. Maybe even a daughter, on a <em> really </em> good day. God. Jesus, no. That’s plain fuckin’ disgustin'.”</p><p>Nicola is attempting to process this revelation - the complete systematic undoing of everything she assumed about their relationship thus far - when the door swings upon again. Phil instinctively winces when he sees that Jamie is still inside.</p><p>“What <em> the fuck </em> is it now? Can I help you to locate the fist at the end of your arm so you can properly go and <em> fuck yourself</em>?”</p><p>“Spinach. I need a bag of spinach,” Phil pleads, hands out in surrender. Jamie reaches down and picks a bag up, hurling it at his chest and shoving him back out of the door. Nicola wonders for a moment what sort of woman had to raise this feral thing. His teachers must have hated him.</p><p>“Why are you being so nice to me?” Today has been a tapestry of surreality - but this heart to heart with <em> Jamie </em> of all people really takes the cake. “Why are we even <em> talking?</em>”</p><p>“I … <em> respect </em> Malcolm.” He can’t bring himself to look at her, struggling to articulate what he’s thinking. His voice softens on the word he chooses. “A lot. And he respects you.”</p><p>It is in that moment that Nicola realizes just how catastrophically she’s underestimated him. Her tone is as gentle as possible. “You don’t really mean ‘respect’, do you?”</p><p>His lips quirk in a bittersweet grin, unable to answer her question. Unable to confront the meaning underlying his statement. Nicola understands all the same. </p><p>“Don’t birds like you usually take your rings off to clean things anyway?" The moment is gone, Jamie retreating back into his usual ferocious persona. "Check your pocket you fuckin’ space case.”</p><p>At his behest she reaches into the left pocket of her blazer - and sure enough. The ring is there.</p><p>As unexpected as it was, the conversation with Jamie does something to steady her. All of these new perspectives - Jamie, Sam, Malcolm’s ex-wife - thrum through her head as she locks up for the evening. Terri gives her a last look before passing through the door.</p><p>“I’ve got a recommendation for a couple’s counselor, if you ever want one.” Sensing Nicola’s apathy, she abandons the issue. “Good luck, tonight. I’m - we’re rooting for you.”</p><p>She checks her phone once more before heading home. James has deigned to communicate with her. A single text: “fine.”</p><p>There is only one light on in the house when she arrives - she can <em> just </em>make out the dining room overhead fixture as she trudges numbly up the front walk. She should be furious or hurt or any multitude of things - but there is nothing. Acceptance, maybe. If she thinks very hard.</p><p>The door isn’t even locked, and when she tiptoes into the foyer she is greeted by a black rolling suitcase and James’s coat. Ah. So that’s how it is.</p><p>“Er - uh. Hello, Nic.” He calls to her softly from the dining room, seated at the table. There’s a pair of untouched mugs in front of him. “I made tea. Probably cold now though.”</p><p>“James.” She can’t bring herself to sit with him - not quite yet. She settles for a lean against the wall opposite his seat.</p><p>He absentmindedly turns the mug by its handle. Nicola notes that isn’t wearing his ring. “How did you - “</p><p>“You made a reservation. At Ten. My <em> host manager </em> saw it,” Running a hand through her hair, she is struck by the notion of how composed she feels. How dispassionate. It’s like she’s simply caught one of the children in a lie about their school work - not dismantling their marriage. “How could you be so - I work for these people. Really, James?”</p><p>“Oh my God,” James closes his eyes in shame, grimacing at his own ineptitude. “The waitlist. I made that reservation ages ago. Long before you ever worked there. Think Nic, Ten is running <em> months </em> behind.”</p><p>His answer is helpful until it isn’t. The broader implications are more upsetting than his lack of discretion. “And you knew? All the way back then. You guessed <em> that </em> early on that you would make it to a year?”</p><p>“Yeah,” His face softens, an involuntary flicker of joy in his eyes as he realizes the truth of his statement. He must <em> really </em> love her, this Olivia, whoever she is. “I guess I did.”</p><p>This isn’t a resuscitation. This is an autopsy. Their marriage is <em> dead</em>. All that’s left is to weigh the remains and label the cause. “What happened? To us?”</p><p>“Have you not felt it? We’ve just - drifted. It happens.” James speaks with the confidence of someone who has already thought this through. “When was the last time you looked at me and <em> felt </em> anything? Anything other than casual affinity or mild contempt?”</p><p>Try as she might - she can’t remember at all. Even now, the most she can summon up is a sense of disappointment and vague embarrassment. She felt far worse last night than she does here. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why carry on like this?”</p><p>“The kids, mostly. I do <em> actually </em> love them, you know.” God, she hadn’t even gotten there yet. Ben is going to be devastated. “But - you weren’t working, Nic. I couldn’t just dump you out with no job or anything. You were so busy with the kids you barely have any friends. As cliche as it sounds, I stayed for you.”</p><p>All of this time, he was shielding her. Protecting her like some fragile, soft thing. It’s laughable - James wouldn’t survive two rounds with Malcolm, and according to Jamie she’s earned his respect. “I should’ve said something. Right when I first started - that night I used your computer. It was still pulled up to some dating website.”</p><p>“Christ - I wasn’t even using the bloody thing,” He hangs his head in humiliation. “That’s not how - I signed up for one of those free trial things and I hated it. It was awful. I tried to cancel before they charged me and it’s been a nightmare ever since. They’ve been drafting the stupid monthly fee for ages now, despite calling them and harassing them. I was checking to see if my account details still worked.”</p><p>Nothing James says provides her the catharsis she craves. It’s all so bland. So uninspired. Relenting, Nicola sits and takes a sip of cold tea, the instant nausea reminding her that she still hasn’t eaten anything today. “What do we do? How does this work now, exactly?”</p><p>“I told the kids that I’m going on an emergency work trip - that I’d be leaving early, before they woke up.” Of course he already thought of something. James, the eternal pragmatist. “Red eye flight. I don’t really have a plan beyond that.”</p><p>“Are you staying with … her?” She can’t bring herself to say her name, to give the woman any presence or solidity. This is not about her, but about the slow erosion of the bedrock of her life. Nicola is currently standing on empty air - and is far less afraid than she anticipated.</p><p>“No. God - hotel tonight.” There’s a hint of awkwardness to James’s explanation. “Probably my sister’s after that, if she’ll have me.”</p><p>She thinks of Jamie’s face when he spoke of his respect for Malcolm, the way it contorted in soft pain. The loathing in his voice when he mentioned his ex-wife and the damage she caused. She thinks too of the venom in Malcolm’s tone when he derided her husband - when he accused her of never speaking his name. There is more rapturous adoration in Malcolm’s description of a Chateau d’Yquem than Nicola has ever managed to elicit from James.</p><p>All of this makes her wonder - “Did we ever <em> really </em> love each other?” </p><p>Taken aback, James stumbles over his response. “How can you say that, Nic? Christ -”</p><p>“No. I mean really think.” It comes to her unbidden - but she is acutely reminded of something Malcolm said on her birthday. The pairings that endure, that <em> really </em> transcend the sum of their parts, are the ones founded on contrast. Neither she nor James are the bubbles - they’re both merely chips. Congealed into some unremarkable homogeneity. “We were young and we both wanted the same things - and then the kids just took up so much of our time. Did you ever really want <em> me</em>? Or did we just enjoy the convenience?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I <em>really</em> don’t know.” He can’t bear to look at her, busying himself with a hangnail on his index finger. It’s not an endorsement - but it’s not a denial either.</p><p>“It was my birthday. Couple weeks back.” Might as well put all the cards on the table. What’s the use of holding back? “Nobody said anything.”</p><p>“Oh, God. I thought the note was a joke,” he murmurs, reaching across the table and settling a hand atop hers. She hadn’t ever noticed how cold his were. “Christ. I’m sorry, Nic. I really am. I’m - for all of it.”</p><p>“Yeah. So am I.” She removes her hand, placing it in her lap. There’s nothing else to be said. James shakily stands and walks out to the hall. He never speaks - there is only the sound of his suitcase wheels and the click of the front lock.</p><p>Her phone vibrates in her pocket - it’s a number she doesn’t recognize, letting it ring through to voicemail. Then a text from the same. </p><p>“<em>jamie called me. if you need tomorrow off I can cover for you. if you want - malc</em>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tim. In. Fucking. Ruislip.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. the moon is right.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James never returned.</p><p>Which isn’t to say that Nicola never <em> saw </em>him. Their separation is the picture of civility and decorum  - schedules of custody are maintained, property is evenly divided. But the night of their modest implosion was the end of any emotional presence in her life. The break was clean. Upon hearing his voice or seeing his face, her brain does not think the word ‘husband’ with its many associations, but simply ‘James.’</p><p>The children have handled it with varying degrees of success. Katie, in true sullen teenage fashion, refuses to speak to either of them. She spends an increasing amount of time at friend’s houses, only coming home to shower and change clothes. Ben oscillates wildly from complete indifference to spurts of anxiety and fear. To Nicola’s horror, Ella has apparently been lashing out at school, turning into a bit of a bully. The only one of the four processing things successfully appears to be Rosie - she cried for two whole days and then moved on.</p><p>Despite all of this - the detached and relentlessly polite method with which they have dismantled the last two decades - a crack is forming in Nicola’s stability. It had not occurred to her, when they decided to pull the plug on the whole affair, that they were sliding headlong into the holiday season. That the weeks of arranged visitations and splitting of assets would be punctuated by advertisements for Christmas gifts and family outings. A sense of impending doom creeps up in the back of her mind. Not having much family to speak of, Nicola’s parents’ decision to spend the holidays stateside with her brother and his wife at their home in Florida leaves her - well. Totally alone. James will have his family and Nicola will have an empty house.</p><p>Unexpectedly, the restaurant has been a godsend, giving her <em> something </em> to occupy her time. Especially so on the weekends that James has the children. Getting called a complete ‘Cote de fuckin’ Beaune-head’ for confusing Beaujolais with Burgundy is preferable to eating ice cream on her couch watching <em> Sense and Sensibility</em>.</p><p>And Nicola has noticed, ever since her drunken outburst, Malcolm has been <em> slightly </em>less shouty towards her. Or at least less viciously so. She can’t tell the cause - her standing up for herself, the divorce, or even the outlandish possibility that Nicola has actually become more competent - but they have settled into an eerie state of companionship. There are still occasional hurled insults and eye-rolling, bollockings in the alley and so forth. But the attacks are less personal. They spend more time discussing the short-comings of others than her own.</p><p>Which is why Nicola feels almost okay about trudging her children into work with her this evening.</p><p>James was supposed to have them. They had planned on him leaving work early, grabbing them in the afternoon and keeping them tonight and tomorrow - Christmas Eve. Nicola would then get her turn on Christmas Day. A frantic phone call over his lunch break informed her otherwise. A very important Japanese client was threatening to pull out entirely, and James and his team would have to stay in the office until the affair was settled. There wasn’t anyone else to watch them on such short notice. Katie, avoiding the entire family per usual, has gone on a trip to the countryside with her boyfriend and his parents. A last ditch attempt at calling Nastya was a bust - she’s occupied with her massive extended family all through next week.</p><p>This left only one choice: shuffling Rosie and Ella and Ben inside of the restaurant with their packed overnight bags. There is a certain dissonance to the experience right off the bat - Nicola the Mum and Nicola the Manager are distinctly different people. Terri’s raised eyebrow at the difficulty she has simply <em> getting them in the door </em> really drives the point home. (Ella keeps telling Ben that he’s moving too slow and standing too close to her and Rosie keeps begging them to not argue so Nicola has to tell all three of them to stop - which of course Ben doesn’t think is <em> fair </em> because <em> he didn’t do anything it’s all Ella’s fault anyway </em> which makes Rosie tell Ben that he was actually walking very slowly if she’s being honest at which point Ella calls them all <em> stuuuupid</em>.)</p><p>“Please tell me we aren’t busy tonight. Please, Terri. Give me a single sliver of good news today or I will stick my head in the convection oven and roast myself to a bloody crisp,” she pleads, leaning against the host desk as Ben clutches her waist.</p><p>“About that - we’re actually quite dead. There was an error with the booking system. Had us marked down as closed tonight until I noticed it this morning and opened it up,” She looks down at the screen and frowns. “Four - wait, no five now. Five tables are all we have booked. Not sure if we’ll get too much foot traffic, it being so close to Christmas and all.”</p><p>“Oh thank <em> fucking </em>Christ.” Ben gasps at her colorful language, quite unlike anything he hears from her at home. Nicola groans.“You didn’t hear that, Ben. Ignore me. This means the upstairs is empty, yeah?”</p><p>“Other than Jamie finishing up inventory in the cellar, yeah.” Terri winces as Rosie nearly topples over a vase in the lounge trying to smell a flower.</p><p>It’s a minor ordeal, getting everyone settled upstairs. Terri finds a fistful of crayons in varying condition and a pile of old menus in a drawer, which is more than enough to entertain Ben for the indefinite future. Rosie is content with her Nintendo while Ella curls up with a battered Japanese comic about ninjas or pirates. Maybe ninja-pirates. Nicola’s never been able to follow the damn thing. After briefing them as to the location of the restroom and the only sort of emergencies they should come downstairs for, Nicola feels <em> relatively </em>confident about leaving them alone.</p><p>When she returns to the host desk, the restaurant is a ghost town.</p><p>“Still just the five then?”</p><p>“Four actually,” Terri sighs, looking thoroughly devoid of purpose. “We lost one. A party of four - their grandmother has food poisoning. Possibly. I think. I didn’t care enough to remember.”</p><p>“Don’t you have a church play tomorrow or something? Why don’t you - I don’t know, go home and run lines or iron a costume or whatever it is that you do.” Nicola’s offer isn’t entirely altruistic - the idea of just <em> sitting </em>here with Terri all night with nothing to do is less than appealing. Having to do so while listening to an endless stream of Christmas music is a circle of hell that Nicola doesn’t particularly deserve.</p><p>“Really? You mean it?”</p><p>“Yeah. Malcolm will be here in a few and I’ve already got Jamie and Ollie on tonight. I think I can handle seating these -” She pauses to glance at the laughably low cover count for the evening. The figure causes her to put her head in her hands. “Twelve. Twelve people. Fucking <em>hell</em>. Just go Terri, before I change my mind."</p><p>“Thanks. Really.” It’s the fastest Nicola has ever seen Terri move - she barely looks over her shoulder on the way out, brushing past Malcolm on his way in. “Speak of the devil. Happy Christmas and all that.”</p><p>“Christ - lettin’ our star player go already? How will we ever begin to function without her? The whole goddamn building rests on her mighty shoulders,” Malcolm chides, sliding behind the host desk to put away his coat and scarf. His questions barely register - Malcolm isn’t wearing his usual suit jacket. He’s wearing a <em> jumper. </em> A soft, cable-knit normal person jumper. The effect it produces is incomprehensible - he looks approachable. Human. Borderline handsome. With increasing horror, she thinks that it brings out his eyes. Something in Nicola’s brain is experiencing a critical malfunction. A system wide outage. She imagines that she must be doing a fantastic impression of a goldfish. “The numbers really that shit?”</p><p>“Twelve,” Nicola blurts, poking around next week’s reservations in an attempt to look at <em> anything </em>else. To regain a shred of dignity. She notes to herself that New Year’s Eve is alarmingly busy already and probably should’ve been capped earlier. Damn. “You aren’t … dressed for service.”</p><p>“Look at you - regular fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes. I’m not dressed for service because I’m not <em> working </em>service. I’m just here to finish up that inventory and then move on with my life,” He pauses, noticing her feigned disinterest. Head quirked, he squints at her with a hand on his chin. Somehow that makes it worse. “Why d’you keep looking away from me like that? Like I’m a fuckin’ pod person or something.”</p><p>Nicola thumbs through a mental rolodex of possible excuses and comes up short. She gives up with a slump of her shoulders. “It’s the jumper, alright? It makes you look like an actual human male and not like some sentient cloud of rage and indignity.”</p><p>“Jesus - a month without the husband and suddenly I can’t wear a pullover without gettin’ eyed up? I better go warn Ollie before he gets jumped. You’ll go feral and rut him to death.” He shudders at the thought.</p><p>“I did <em> not </em>- “</p><p>“Methinks the lady doth protest too fuckin’ much.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye, scolding her playfully. As much as he jokes about it - using the disgusting image of her and Ollie as a deflection - Nicola can’t help but feel that he <em> preens </em> a little bit when he walks away, tugging slightly at the hem of his jumper.</p><p>Could he be right? Could she be so lonely without James that she’s willing to grab the nearest functioning man-shaped object? The alternative is too mind-boggling - the idea that <em> Malcolm </em> might stir up something unsavoury in that chronically neglected portion of her hindbrain. There’s a terrifying, involuntary swoop in her stomach when she idly considers what the wool would feel like against her cheek. Excellent. Nicola is so exceptionally touch starved that she could masturbate to a Boden catalog. Perhaps she should buy a vibrator.</p><p>Bringing a sledgehammer to her line of thinking, Ben scuttles around the corner at a run and throws himself into her lap.</p><p>“Why aren’t you upstairs?” She can’t find it in her to chastise him as strongly as she’d like. Ben has always given better hugs than the other children and is currently wrapped around her like an affectionate boa constrictor.</p><p>“Just wanted to hug you is all,” He mumbles into her stomach. “Love you, mum.”</p><p>Damn him, tiny little heart melting terror. “Love you too, my darling. Can you please go upstairs now with your sisters?” He nods wordlessly against her.</p><p>“Can you find your way back alone?” He nods again, then tears away as quickly as he appeared, nearly knocking Jamie down as they cross paths. First Terri leaves and now him. At this rate, Ella’s going to be closing manager this evening.</p><p>“Abandoning us so soon?” She teases with a mock pout. Ever since their bizarre conversation in the walk-in, Nicola has felt surprisingly comfortable around Jamie. They don’t see each other often - but when they do there is an unspoken camaraderie. A mutual understanding and warmth.</p><p>“Apparently his highness has no need for me the rest of the evening. Told me to fuck off and enjoy myself for a change, self-righteous cunt.” Tucking his scarf into his coat, he lowers his guard for a moment, giving Nicola a glimpse of the Jamie that only she is privy to. “Take care of yourself, yeah? You’re doin’ a bang-up job with those kids. Happy Christmas, Nic’la.”</p><p>Jamie's been gone for all of thirty minutes when the tip of Rosie’s head enters Nicola’s peripheral vision. Bang-up job her <em> arse. </em>Ollie follows close behind her as she excitedly shows him something on her Nintendo.</p><p>“What are you doing down here?” Nicola whines - Rosie is the only one of the four that has ever consistently followed directions. If <em> she </em> isn’t staying put there is truly no hope for any of them.</p><p>“Sorry, mum. I couldn’t get the upstairs loo unlocked. So I came down here,” she states very matter-of-fact, barely looking up from her video game. Her thumbs click against the buttons noisily. “The nice man with the glasses helped me.”</p><p>She meant to tuck the children away somewhere they wouldn’t be seen and instead this has morphed into one of those ‘it takes a village’ things. “Oh, Ollie. I’m sorry - “</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. It’s a nice excuse to hide from Emma - she’s been a right fucking nightmare about me not wanting to go ‘round her parents tomorrow. I just can’t take anymore of her father - he uses slurs so ancient I have to <em>google them</em>. Besides,” he puts a hand on Rosie’s shoulder. “This one’s exceedingly polite. Disturbingly so. Did you know there are almost five <em>hundred</em> Pokemon now? Can’t believe it. And they say capitalism breeds innovation.</p><p>“If you’re so keen on hiding, can you watch the door for me? Apparently I can’t trust these children for fuck all. They’ve probably gone and done a massive shit in the middle of the floor, for all I know. Sorry, Rosie,” Nicola cringes, standing up and taking the girl by the hand. She keeps forgetting to shift into Mum-mode. “You didn’t hear that.”</p><p>It occurs to her, replaying her last several interactions as she leads her daughter up the stairs, that Jamie is gone. Meaning Malcolm is alone. Upstairs. With her <em> children. </em>The children whose presence she at no point warned him about. The image of Ben being roundly torn into for doodling on a bottle of Montrachet with a crayon haunts her, and she takes the last few steps two at a time.</p><p>Her son, thankfully, is sitting quietly on the floor drawing on the paper they gave him. Which does nothing to curb her fear - his sister is nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“Ben, where’s Ella?” Nicola tries and fails to keep the panic from her voice.</p><p>Nonchalantly, Ben points at the wine cellar door. “She’s in there.”</p><p>Oh God. Ella’s really gone and done it now. Every possible worst case scenario flashes through her mind at high speed - but nothing prepares her for the reality of what lies behind the door. The scene before her is far stranger than anything she could possibly imagine.</p><p>Seated on a wooden crate, pencil in hand, Ella is furiously concentrating on reading the clipboard in front of her. “Cakebread chard - chard uh neye?” </p><p>“Close - Chardonnay,” Malcolm answers her from the opposite corner of the room, counting a row of bottles on a low shelf while crouched on his hands and knees. “Seven.”</p><p>“Seven,” she calls back, carefully writing the number down as neatly as possible. Nothing about what Nicola is seeing makes any sense. Ella is quietly seated and <em> listening </em> to someone. And Malcolm is being civil. It’s like she’s walked in on a bear and a lion having tea.</p><p>“What - what on <em> earth </em> -” There aren’t words. She can’t begin to wrap her head around this.</p><p>“Quiet, Mum. I’m doin’ invent’ry.” So focused on her new job, Ella doesn’t even look up to speak to her. There’s a hefty dose of pride in her voice. “He’s paying me ten pounds.”</p><p>Nicola can’t seem to do anything other than stand in the doorway with her mouth open. “How - why?”</p><p>“Jamie was helping me earlier, until this nosy dwarf came in here and noticed he wrote the wrong number down,” Malcolm explains, leaning back on his heels. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Can’t have that kind of shoddy work here, can I? Her penmanship is better, too. Jamie writes like a fuckin’ epileptic using his toes. Besides, she’s a hell of a lot cheaper. Shrewd little thing. Originally I offered her an ice cream and a fiver. Haggled me up to ten. Bloody ruthless.”</p><p>This is absolute insanity. Ella has never in her life done a chore for <em> money. </em> More than that - she is watching Malcolm get along swimmingly with a child. It would be touchingly domestic, if it wasn’t profoundly unsettling.</p><p>“We’re almost done here,” he reassures her, then turns back to Ella. “Did I say you could stop callin’ things out? I’ll dock your pay for insolence, I swear I will. You’ll be walking out of here with nothin’ but a satsuma and pocket lint. And you’ll thank me for it.”</p><p>“Right.” There doesn’t seem to be anything Nicola can contribute. Everyone is miraculously doing fine without her. “Well. I guess I’ll leave you to it then.”</p><p>Dazed, she closes the door behind her and ambles towards the stairs. The whole thing is odd until it isn’t - Malcolm and Ella are the two most absurdly strong willed people she has ever known. It makes sense in its own way, that they each simply sensed there was no way around each other. She wonders if James ever got along with her half as well. It’s a painful thought, and she pushes it away as she sits on a stair.</p><p>Folding at the waist, she is made aware of a sizable object in the pocket of her blazer. Reaching in, she pulls out a <em> lemon. </em></p><p>“Ah. I see the lemon is in play again.” Appearing on the landing behind her, Malcolm’s statement does little to clarify. She realizes that Ben must have dropped it in his pocket when he hugged her. Sneaky bastard.</p><p>“Can you please explain to me <em> why </em>my son has placed a lemon in my pocket?”</p><p>“Some fuckin’ game that Mannion has the kitchen play,” Malcolm groans as settles next to her on the stairs. Restaurants do not often afford one the strongest sense of personal space - but this is close even for them. Her breath catches when the stupid <em> fucking </em>jumper brushes against her arm. “They take turns hiding a lemon in plain sight - if you find the lemon you have to hide it next. Ben must’ve picked it up from him. Speaking of which - why do you have the world’s tiniest fuckin’ terrorist cell swarming around your ankles tonight?”</p><p>“James was supposed to take them this afternoon. Something came up at his work. Like always,” she grumbles, rolling the lemon between her hands. It’s not an entirely fair statement - he’s been better about things since the split. But today was a frustrating reminder.  “We’ve decided in our infinite wisdom to split Christmas clean down the middle. He gets tonight and tomorrow and I get the day of.”</p><p>“Oh Christ - that’s fuckin’ perfect.” Nicola shoots him a glare, and he holds his hands out in surrender. “I actually <em> need </em>you tomorrow night. There’s this big charity event Tom has me working and I’d kill for the extra pair of hands. One of those couple hundred pounds per ticket affairs. Between the rich pricks and Pearson, I might be liable to bludgeon someone to a bloody fuckin’ pulp with my bare hands.”</p><p>“And <em> why </em>are you waiting to ask me until right now?” The idea has its merits - being alone in an empty home on Christmas Eve sounds absurdly depressing. She’ll probably end up drinking herself into a stupor and passing out before dinner. And Malcolm owing her a favor would be a rare treat.</p><p>“I figured you’d be busy with the kids and all.” His admittance is too genuine for him to be able to look at her. Instead, he busies himself with a piece of lint on his trousers. “Didn’t seem right making you choose.”</p><p>“Astounding. The great and fucking <em> terrible </em> Malcolm Tucker has a heart after all.” To her delight, the corner of his mouth turns vaguely upward. “Color me surprised. Somebody call The Mail.”</p><p>“That’s a lie and you know it,” he insists, placing a hand across his chest. “All that’s in here is a fuckin’ angry little rat pumping a bellows.”</p><p>They’re too close to something here - to talking about themselves as actual human beings. That simply will not do. Nicola has to change the subject before she suffocates. “Have you seen the New Year’s numbers? It’s going to be an absolute nightmare. Full tilt Bosch. And not the fun one with all of the happy nude people. I mean the hell one. With the miserable nude people being flayed and poked and shoved through a bloody funnel.”</p><p>“Maybe I’ll just do an industrial fuckin’ quantity of ketamine before I come in, then. Get absolutely shittin’ blasted,” He quietly laughs to himself. It’s funny - the more comfortable Malcolm is around her the more unsettled he seems to become. Sitting here on the stairs has made him downright fidgety. “Or we could just quit before then. Run away to Majorca and start stickin’ up tourists. I’ll grow a hideous mustache. Can you do an American accent? We’ll get you a cheap blonde wig, call you Barbara fuckin’ Wintergreen.”</p><p>It’s so peaceful here, right now, in this near-empty restaurant. That awful Paul McCartney Christmas song playing over the speakers, the one that Nicola will never admit to anyone that she actually <em> likes. </em> The sound of her children laughing and playing in the dining room behind them. The foolish game with the lemon. And cable-knit Malcolm joking about them leaving these idiots behind to fend for themselves. It’s the first moment that Nicola’s actually felt anything akin to contentment since James left. Not just functioning, but verging on <em> happy. </em></p><p>She is reminded of being a little girl and playing house.</p><p>Before she can unpack whatever the <em> fuck </em>the implications of that notion are, Ollie appears at the foot of the stairs.</p><p>“Nicola, your um,” he trips over his words, nearly saying husband. “James is here to pick up the kids. He’s by the host desk.”</p><p>“Tell him I’ll be a few minutes rounding up the troops.” Massaging her temples, she sighs and rises to begin the arduous process of corralling the children back out of the building. It’s a herculean feat getting them all together - she ends up giving Ella ten pounds from her own pocket just to get her to stop whingeing about Malcolm not having paid her yet, and it takes a full five minutes to find where Rosie left the charging cord for her Nintendo. By the time she has everyone packed and down the stairs, James is nowhere to be found. And - to her absolute <em> horror </em>- neither is Malcolm.</p><p>Sitting behind the host desk, Ollie has gone an alarming shade of white.</p><p>“Ollie - where the <em> fuck </em>are they?” The question is wholly perfunctory - Nicola has a reasonably clear idea of what has happened. She just hopes that she is wrong.</p><p>“Well, they’re outside. And have been for a while,” he grimaces. The rage must be creeping into Nicola’s face, Ollie rushing to justify himself. “I did try and stop Malcolm - for what it’s worth. But that’s like standing in front of a freight train with only an umbrella and good intentions. I don’t think anyone’s drawn blood yet - and it hasn’t been <em> too </em>shouty.” </p><p>Looking through the door, Nicola sees the two men on the sidewalk. She expects to see Malcolm in his usual state - spinning in circles, waving his hands all about and shouting to the heavens. The reality is far more disturbing. Malcolm is standing less than a meter from James, almost totally still other than the constant movement of his lips, held taut in a sneer. To James’s credit, he looks appropriately miserable and pants-shittingly terrified. </p><p>Before Nicola can get it into her head to go out and intervene herself, her ex-husband turns and heads sheepishly back for the door. James’s hangdog look only worsens upon seeing her and the children. She doesn’t get the opportunity to grill him about the experience - the moment he enters, Ben rushes forward and envelops him in a hug, and Rosie begins to excitedly tell him all about what she hopes to get from Father Christmas. They exchange pleasantries, reaffirming the details of the next two days, and then he is herding the children out into the street.</p><p>Malcolm waits until they’ve all gone before coming inside.</p><p>“Malcolm - what did you - “ She sputters indignantly, amazed that he would take such a presumptuous leap on her behalf.<br/>
<br/>
“Look, I didn’t say <em> anything </em> near as bad as what I usually do, okay?” Taking her by the shoulder, he leads her away from Ollie and into the lounge. She bristles at the touch. “I didn’t want to embarrass you - he got a diet bollocking. Malcolm Tucker lite. Half the calories, half the descriptions of exposed viscera. The same <em> underlying </em> threat. I didn’t say a single thing the man doesn’t deserve, right?”</p><p>She knows this is a lie. Whatever transpired outside was Malcolm Tucker on steroids. James seemed to genuinely fear for his life.</p><p>“I can’t begin to explain to you how much I can’t <em> fucking </em> stand it when people speak for me. Let me do this.” There’s a look in his eyes, a genuine desire to <em> help her </em> and it throws a monkey wrench into the gears of her oncoming nuclear meltdown. She softens in spite of herself. “Let me handle things my way, please. For fuck’s sake.”</p><p>“Alright, fine.” The silence between them is unbearable. He breaks it with a joke before she loses all cohesion. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I smashed in all of his fuckin’ car windows then, huh? Come on, let’s get this fuckin’ ghost town closed up before tumbleweeds start sprouting in the dining room and rolling around.”</p><p>When they finally leave, Malcolm insists on waiting with her until she’s able to hail a taxi. Standing on the cold street with their hands in their coat pockets, they watch their breath hover in clouds. She remembers, right before the cab slows down, the thing that Ben was so intent on before he left. The kerfuffle with James had made her forget.</p><p>Digging in her purse, Nicola pulls out a scrap of old menu paper that Ben scrawled on with crayon. “Here, Malcolm. Quick, before I need to go - Ben wanted you to have this. Apparently he was eavesdropping when we were talking on the stairs.”</p><p>She holds it open with a gloved hand, Malcolm staring quizzically at the fuzzy red shape. Ben is, after all, five years old and perhaps not the most talented artist in his age bracket. So the image is a little abstract.</p><p>“It’s a heart. Ben was terribly frightened when he heard you say you didn’t have one.”</p><p>Malcolm’s face twitches in a way that Nicola has never seen before. “If I don’t have a heart - then what’s that you’re holdin’ in your hands there, love?”<br/>
<br/>
She doesn’t have the opportunity to ask for clarification - the taxi pulls alongside them, impatiently honking its horn. When she turns to glare at the driver, Malcolm deftly pulls the paper from her hands and opens the rear door before turning on his heel and silently walking away.<br/>
<br/>
As the car rolls into traffic, Nicola watches him painstakingly fold the paper and gently place it in his wallet. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Surprise, this is a Christmas story now. Funny how these things happen.</p><p>Chapter named for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rt0dflSPD5o">this</a> incredible cover of 'Wonderful Christmastime' where all of the lyrics are replaced by 'the moon is right.' </p><p>Bonus points if you catch the two glaring easter eggs this chapter, neither of which are TTOI related. But are <i>adjacent</i>. If you squint.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. steinfeder, federspiel, smaragd.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Four dresses.</p><p>Four dresses, three skirts, a pair of trousers and <em>five</em> blouses. There’s a jumper somewhere in there, too. But that seemed ridiculous before she even tried it on.</p><p>They sit in a discarded heap on the bed, taunting her with folds of rayon and silk and wool. She should’ve put them all back onto their hangers - some of them are definitely going to be wrinkled to high heaven by this experience. But even if she had the energy she definitely doesn’t have the time. She only has roughly thirty minutes until Malcolm is supposed to come round and pick her up. Never having gone anywhere with him she’s not sure if he’s the sort for punctuality, prone to being chronically late, or - god forbid - one of those insufferable ‘ten minutes early is on time’ individuals. </p><p>Preparing for all of these eventualities, Nicola had begun the process of getting dressed with time to spare. Or so she thought. But the dress she had intended on wearing - the modest black one with the sweetheart neck and the three-quarter sleeves - has a busted zipper. This tidbit of information did not come to her attention until, already having showered, shaved, moisturized, wrestled with her hair, done her make-up, perfumed, and deodorized, she slipped it over her bra and stockings and attempted to close it to no avail.</p><p>She dove into her closet in a panic - nothing seemed <em> quite right </em> otherwise. <em>This</em> dress was too tight, <em>that</em> one was too dowdy. The blouse she liked didn’t fit quite right into the trousers. Another dress looked positively stunning but the neckline didn’t suit her hair - and after already having spent thirty minutes with a YouTube tutorial and half a bottle of hairspray, she certainly wasn’t changing it. ‘Easy Ten-Minute Updo’ her <em> arse. </em>Nicola was going to be fishing hair pins out of her scalp until well after New Years.</p><p>There was a moment in which she considered actually <em> texting Malcolm </em> to ask what she should wear to this charity function. But that felt absurd. He had told her it was a black tie affair - but that could mean just the guests and not the staff. She existed in that age old anxiety, the agonizing choice between appearing over or under-dressed.</p><p>Eventually, she settled on what she dubs <em> Waitstaff Chic. </em> A white, airy bishop-sleeve blouse with a tastefully deep v-neck and black pencil skirt. Looking in the mirror, affixing the gold drop earrings James bought her at least ten years ago, Nicola is surprised to find she actually <em> likes </em>what she sees. It’s been so long since she’s gotten dressed up - since she hasn’t had to stop every five minutes to answer a child’s question or fix something for a pair of tiny hands. Since she’s been able to wander around in her undergarments, tossing clothes left and right without caring what James thinks. She blots at a slight red smear at the corner of her lips and smiles. Nicola Murray cleans up nice, when all is said and done.</p><p>Her phone vibrates on her dressing table, startling her out of her reverie. Before she can even glance at the screen, someone is knocking on the front door <em>and </em>ringing the bell simultaneously. The sheer impatience in the act tells her without looking that it’s Malcolm. ‘Ten minutes early is on time’ it is, then.</p><p>Despite the fact that she’s doing him a favour by working this event at all <em>and </em>it being a holiday, he is still who he is. So in an effort to avoid incurring his wrath at this point in the afternoon, Nicola hurries to grab her handbag and head downstairs, flinging open the door in a rush.</p><p>If the jumper caused her difficulty, the tuxedo on her doorstep was going to be the death of her.</p><p>It is surreal enough having Malcolm at her door. It is <em>beyond</em> surreal that Malcolm is at her door on Christmas Eve. It is fully baffling that she is <em> excited </em> to see Malcolm at her door on Christmas Eve.</p><p>But it is beyond the mental facilities of Nicola Murray to process the fact that Malcolm Tucker is standing outside her front door on Christmas Eve in a <em> tuxedo, </em>looking incredibly dashing. And - if she’s willing to acknowledge it at all - he is allowing his gaze to linger on her exposed bit of decolletage for far longer than is necessary.</p><p>“Nic’la,” he nods curtly, seemingly at a loss for words, struggling to find somewhere tasteful to put his eyes. They dart from her throat to her collarbone, the dip of her blouse down her sternum to the waistline of her skirt, settling nervously somewhere down her legs. “You’re uh - not wearing any shoes.”</p><p>Following his line of sight, she looks down to see her own stockinged feet. Perhaps she hurried <em> too </em> much. “Shit. Damn. Hang on - I’ll be just a minute. How about I meet you at the car?”</p><p>The idea of him waiting around in her foyer would be far too uncomfortable. This is already weird enough - they’re both about as loquacious and self-confident as a pair of teenagers. He shrugs in agreement and stumbles backward, mumbling something about running late while he runs a hand through his hair. She runs upstairs, grabbing her heels from the bottom of her closet, and checks her reflection one last time. A lock of hair has already slipped out from her convoluted chignon and she quickly pins it back with a huff. With a last look at the mountain of discarded clothing on her bed, she shuts off the lights and hurries back downstairs. All that’s left is to stuff her feet haphazardly into her black heels and lock the door behind her.</p><p>Parked out front is a blue mid-size SUV, Malcolm leaning against the rear door impatiently. She had assumed that when he offered to pick her up that he would be driving. He opens the door for her, and clamoring inside the back seat she is surprised to see Jamie sitting behind the wheel with Sam at his side. It was implied that he asked her to work because he had no one else. But his entire support staff is crammed into this car. Why on earth would he need her too?</p><p>“Hello, Happy Christmas everyone and all that,” Nicola offers politely, settling into her seat as Malcolm slips in and closes his door. Adjusting the rear view mirror, Jamie gives Nicola a once over and <em> whistles. </em></p><p>“Well, who knew all of that was fuckin’ hiding under there?” Jamie grins broadly, winking at her in the mirror. The tuxedo he wears looks eerily similar to Malcolm’s, leaving Nicola to wonder if he chose it for him.</p><p>Sam playfully punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. You do look quite nice, Nicola.” </p><p>“Listen, you’re going to want to put that seatbelt on.” Leaning over, Malcolm’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Jamie’s about as safe of a driver as you’d imagine. Which is to say he’s a right shittin' terror. Each ride with him takes fuckin’ years off my damn lifespan. It’s about as good for your heart as doing fuckin’ whippets and chasing 'em with blow.”</p><p>It’s not an exaggeration. Jamie drives like a man possessed, complete with the requisite brake-slamming, horn honking, and swearing. Several times the boxes full of bottles stuffed into the boot make very concerning glass-on-glass sounds. The clanking is so loud that Malcolm grimaces, clutching the handle above the door.</p><p>But they make it to the venue in one piece, pulling into the loading dock at a time that Malcolm deems ‘barely fuckin’ socially acceptable.’ Regardless of the fact that they are easily forty-five minutes early. The area is swarming with vans and lorries being unloaded and after some haggling with a hotel staffer, Jamie is able to secure a few moving carts to transport their wine. Malcolm suggests that he and Nicola go park the car and bring the last few bits and pieces in by hand, while Jamie and Sam wheel everything inside.</p><p>It takes them a few minutes and several loops around the garage to figure out just where, exactly, they’re meant to leave the car. The entire ride is spent in a stilted silence until they have parked and locked up, Malcolm carrying a small box and Nicola slinging a tote bag over her shoulder.</p><p>“Sam looks really nice tonight,” Nicola attempts to start some kind of conversation, heels clacking loudly in the echoey garage. “And God, Jamie almost looks like an adult. Did you pick the tux out for him?”</p><p>“They really do grow up so fast, don’t they?” They come upon a lift, Nicola’s chest immediately tightening at the thought. But the line gathered in front of the doors is apparently too much for Malcolm, and he strides into the exit stairwell instead, slamming the door open with his back. “You know, I’ve never really understood why it hasn’t happened. As much as I’ve tried nudging ‘em together. It’s like those zoos trying to get pandas to fuckin’ mate. Gonna have to put on a porno and start throwing around rose petals.”</p><p>The pace Malcolm sets down the stairs is brutal - Nicola struggles to keep up in her heels and skirt. Combined with the strange acoustics and the noise of their shoes, she barely hears him. “Who? What pandas?”</p><p>“Jamie and Sam,” he explains, pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairwell. “They’re perfect for each other and they’re both right fuckin’ there. It’s part of the reason I brought ‘em tonight. I thought seeing each other all cleaned up and out of the building would spark something. Maybe I’ll get ‘em both knackered and trap ‘em in a cupboard. Start playing something over the speakers - what kind of music do the kids shag to these days?”</p><p>“Oh. Well, I don’t know. About them, not the music. Although I don’t know that either. Anyway - you can’t just <em>push</em> people together,” Nicola attempts to elaborate without giving away what she knows about Jamie's feelings regarding his boss. Besides, for all she knows Jamie could very well be interested in Sam, too. God, Malcolm walks <em> fast</em>. “There really aren’t <em> rules </em> to this sort of thing. It’s unpredictable. It’s messy and frustrating and you certainly don’t get to <em> choose </em> the best person. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if you could? It just kind of. I don’t know - happens? Malcolm, can you please slow <em> down</em>?”</p><p>He doesn’t hear her thesis about attraction or her request that he change pace - they’re coming up on the service entrance now, staff from different restaurants and the hotel all chaotically shouting and milling around each other. Chairs and tables are being hauled down hallways along with rolling carts full of bottled wine and booze. Out of the crowd, Jamie spots them and waves. Seeing him standing there with Sam, Nicola must agree with Malcolm - they do make a sensible pair. But <em> sensible </em> doesn’t mean a damn thing.</p><p>Nothing about the way she feels watching Malcolm weave through the mob in front of them is <em> sensible</em>. The sensation is too strong for her to deny - he looks really, really <em> good. </em>And it isn’t simply loneliness this time - she’s in a room full of men in suits and she finds herself looking at only one of them. Fucking hell.</p><p>Afraid of losing him in the throng, she considers reaching for his hand. Instead, she settles for a hand on his shoulder in front of her. He stiffens briefly at the touch but doesn’t brush her off. Nicola becomes aware of the absurdity of it when they get to the other two, quickly pulling her hand back.</p><p>“Alright, where are we at? What’s the story, kids?” Malcolm is softer than usual, and it occurs to Nicola that for once he isn’t talking <em> down </em>to anyone. He’s surrounded himself with a group of people he considers able, and it’s allowing him to almost relax. They’re his team. Not a pool of potential liabilities and handicaps.</p><p>“Tom’s over with Pearson and company handling the kitchen stuff,” Sam explains. There’s a particular distaste in her voice when she says Pearson’s name, her nose wrinkling slightly. “We’ve got about an hour to finish setting up before they start coming in.”</p><p>Malcolm winces at the time frame. The countenance of the other two tells her this is an overreaction on his part. “Hour of cocktails and passed hors d'oeuvres?”</p><p>“Yeah, same as usual. Then four courses - a wine per. Probably a fuck-ton of speeches, too,” Jamie despairs, hands in his pockets. “I think there’s a silent auction or somethin’, awards and all that shite. We’re gonna be here for fuckin’ ages.”</p><p>“Right. Well,” Malcolm starts off with a shrug. “Couple hundred pieces of glassware aren’t going to polish themselves are they?”</p><p>To her amazement, a ‘couple hundred pieces of glassware’ was not an overstatement. At a hundred seats with two wine glasses per to start - <em>plus </em>the flutes for the cocktail reception - not forgetting the dessert course - there is a truly astounding amount of polishing to do. Not that the four of them are the only ones tackling the endeavor - there’s so many servers swarming every corner of available space that Nicola has no hope of remembering anyone’s name.</p><p>In fact, there is so much going on that for a brief period of time, Nicola is allowed to forget about things. About James’s affair and the empty house waiting for her this Christmas Eve. It’s almost like she’s found a second family, here with Malcolm and his two proteges. Somewhere that she actually <em>fits </em>for who she is. While he and Jamie have the best banter, being here with them has afforded her the opportunity to learn that Sam is actually <em>very </em>funny. Drier and harsher than the two men - wittier for sure. There’s a particularly filthy joke she makes at Nicola’s excitement over fitting her whole hand into a Burgundy glass that leaves Nicola gasping for air, tears streaming down her cheeks. </p><p>While opening bottles for the first course - some Austrian white wine - Nicola points out that little lizard on the bottle looks <em> just </em> like Malcolm, and Jamie is so tickled that he vows to never let it go. Keeps calling him a ‘right Caledonian fuckin’ chameleon’. Asks him if he needs some crickets to munch and a wee little heat lamp and a rock to bask on. Malcolm threatens to shove a corkscrew in his urinary tract, but the threat is damn near affectionate.</p><p>And then - the guests begin to arrive. The servers start to break up, scurrying off to whatever duties have been assigned to them. To Nicola’s confusion, Jamie and Sam disperse with them.</p><p>But she and Malcolm do not. “I thought you brought me here to work,” she asks, idly checking the stem of a glass for any remaining smudges. “What are we meant to be doing?”<br/>
<br/>
“They,” he gestures at his two underlings as they walk away, “are here to work. We are here to <em> supervise.</em>”</p><p>There’s a hint of mischief to Malcom’s look that Nicola finds infectious. “And what are we supervising, exactly?”</p><p>It is at that moment a waiter passes by with a tray of little puff pastries - from the smell of it something stuffed with goat cheese and mushrooms - and Malcolm deftly snags two. “Quality and flow of service.” He pops one of the pastries into his mouth and holds the other out for Nicola. And damn if it doesn’t taste <em> divine. </em> Then he nods in the opposite direction of wherever Sam and Jamie went off to.</p><p>“C’mon. Tom’ll expect me to do my fair share of mingling and hand-shaking,” he grumbles, straightening his bow-tie. He doesn’t get it quite right. Nicola’s mothering instincts take over and she reaches forward to make the final adjustment for him. To his credit - he doesn’t flinch. “Gotta thank the poncy twats for their generosity and whatnot. Give ‘em all the slobbery kiss on the arsecheek they think they deserve for deigning to separate from half a percentage point of their least favourite child’s net-worth.” </p><p>The reception area is already more than half-full with one of the <em> dullest </em> crowds that Nicola has ever seen in her life. A sea of white-haired, fussy old-money bores. Malcolm leads her to a table full of glasses of bubbly, grabbing them one each.</p><p>“You’re goin’ to want to drink that. Knock it the fuck back pretty much immediately.” He mutters against her ear, cocking his eyebrow knowingly before turning around to face the ocean of stuck-up geriatrics. As soon as he does, Nicola’s reason for being here is made clear. Malcolm needs a human fucking shield. Something between him and the throng of banality that descends upon them - a friendly face and kind voice to take the edge off of his obvious dislike of each minor member of the gentry or ‘friend of Tom’s’ or backbencher that insists on a handshake. That has to tell him about their cellar at home, the Coravin they just bought - their trip to <em> Napa. </em> The small talk is enough to make her want to bash her own face in - she can’t imagine what it’s doing to him.</p><p>They make a good team, teeing up set-ups and punchlines interchangeably. There’s a small swell of pride in her chest when she notices that he <em> consistently </em>introduces her. To every single person they speak to. “This here’s Nicola Murray, running the show at Dos. Really turnin’ things around over there. Like my other half sometimes.” Once, while shaking hands with a particularly bland financier who would <em> love </em>to hear Malcolm’s thoughts on the Super Tuscans, he slips and calls her his ‘better half.’ He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s done it at all.</p><p>All the while, they continue to sip crisp bubbles and snag bits of food - savoury tartlets of caviar and creme fraiche, bites of seared foie gras, some baked brie thing with fig jam that Nicola wants to shag and possibly <em> marry, </em>a foul pate on crostini that she never wants to experience again as long as she lives, and those damn goat cheese pastries. As far as Christmas Eves go, this one is starting to rank pretty high. </p><p>She is distracting the near-senile mother of Malcolm’s current besieger, a lanky man who considers himself a ‘vinicultural enthusiast and downright oenophile’ - his own words - when she realizes that Malcolm has directed the end of his sentence towards her. Something about ‘skin contact.’ Trying to piece together what that possibly means, she looks down at her side to find that her hand has somehow found itself on his arm. Playing off of the banter they’ve established - the tired old good cop, bad cop routine - she settles for a laugh.</p><p>“Oh please, we’re barely touching,” she chides with a saccharine smile. It works - the old hag chuckles at Malcolm’s bristling.</p><p>“I meant the fuckin’ orange wines, you daft hen,” Malcolm volleys back with an equally fake grin and theatrical eye-roll, leaving the man in stitches. The gag works so well that Nicola lets her hand linger for a second longer, Malcolm’s tongue nervously darting against his lip.</p><p>Blessedly, there is a commotion as the doors to the ballroom open, an usher instructing everyone to finally begin heading toward their assigned tables. Malcolm directs Nicola back to the wait station, where Jamie is showing a group of young waitresses the photos of him sabering that champagne. Sam, looking positively less than thrilled to be seeing the images <em> again, </em>brightens at the sight of them. </p><p>“I see you two survived the circuit,” she jokes, taking a sip from a bottled San Pellegrino. “How did Malcolm do? Corpse-like or merely near catatonia?”</p><p>“I <em> think </em> he had a pulse,” Nicola adds, hand on her jaw in mock contemplation. “Can’t be sure though. It might just be sheer fucking vitriol at this point, piloting around a dead husk on willpower alone. Like a ghost with unfinished business.”</p><p>Malcolm squints at them both. “I did not bring you here to be mocked in fuckin’ stereo. Pair of nasty old spinsters. Tweedle glum and tweedle fuckin’ twee.”</p><p>“I suppose <em> I’m </em> glum and she’s twee then?” Nicola inquires, eyebrow arched. A burst of laughter floats over from one of the girls thronged around Jamie. “That’s not even a very good pun. And I don’t feel like I was too glum out there. I think my back is a touch sore, actually. Right between my shoulders. From y’know, carrying all those conversations <em> for </em> you.”</p><p>“I guess you’ll be wanting me to work those knots out myself, then?” He shoots back, turning to Sam before she can process the quasi-flirtatious leap their game just took. What the <em> fuck </em> was that? “What are we up to now? What’s the plan, Stan? What’s the <em> agenda, </em> Brenda?”</p><p>“Seems like about fifteen more minutes of waiting for these geezers to get seated.” Sucking her teeth in annoyance, Sam shrugs. “Then I think another fifteen or twenty minutes of masturbatory introductory speeches before salads get served. Probably start pouring the first wines as soon as that last arse brushes against a chair.” </p><p>“You’ll never fuckin’ believe it,” Jamie calls to them with unbridled enthusiasm, tearing himself away from a rather striking blonde girl that keeps eyeing him up. “Guess what little Miss Jeanie over here managed to swipe a nice thick handful of from the extra table decorations?"</p><p>Wrapped in matte black paper with a gold foil design, Jamie is carrying three of the poshest Christmas crackers that Nicola has ever seen. Excitedly, he hands one off to a beautiful dark-skinned girl with waist-length braids who is frankly far too good-looking to bother herself with Jamie at all. He then offers one to Malcolm, who takes it with a flourish.</p><p>To Nicola’s surprise, Malcolm turns to her, holding the end of the cracker out for her to take. It is in that instant, playfully tugging at a strip of paper, smiling guilelessly at the silliness of the situation - something inside of Nicola massively shifts. She hears to her right the sound of Jamie and Sam laughing as they pop theirs, atop the tasteful instrumental Christmas music over the speakers and constant chatter of the waitstaff. There’s a steady pleasant wine buzz coursing through her veins, and they’re both dressed so nicely and for once neither of them seems like they’re going to start shouting at each other or anyone else. A bubble of warmth grows deep within her and <em> pops </em> with the cardboard tube.</p><p>To her mounting horror, Nicola Murray might <em> possibly </em> be slightly in love. She's caught herself falling for Malcolm Tucker. Which is probably about as intelligent and enjoyable as climbing into an iron maiden and shutting the door. Self-preservation be damned. Happy <em> fucking </em>Christmas to her.</p><p>“Well, what have we got?” She attempts to sound casual, to not collapse under the weight of this revelation. Her hand trembles violently as she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.</p><p>“God these are <em> disgustingly </em>posh,” Malcolm groans, revealing in the palm of his hand a miniature steel nutmeg grater. He holds it out for Nicola to take. She’s not sure she can touch his hand without sweating. “You can have it. I’m keeping the fuckin’ hat” </p><p>“I don’t have any pockets. You’ll have to hold onto it for me,” she gestures at her skirt helplessly. Malcolm puts it in his trousers with a shrug, affixing the shiny silver paper crown onto his head. God, even the <em> hats </em> are fussy. It doesn’t matter - seeing him with a silly crown on is doing nothing for Nicola’s present condition. It’s slightly crooked and she wants so <em> badly </em> to reach over and fix it, but she can’t possibly pull it off in a friendly manner. Thank <em> God </em> Jamie reaches over and adjusts it instead.</p><p>“These things are fuckin’ awful, aren’t they?” he teases. Sam is wearing a gold crown to match Malcolm’s. “I got a wee pot of strawberry jam, of all fuckin’ things. She insisted on keepin’ the fuckin’ hat. Cunt. What did you lot get?”</p><p>“A bloody nutmeg grater,” Nicola giggles at the absurdity of it. “Who grates nutmeg with such regularity that they would be <em> excited </em> to receive a new one? In a fucking cracker?”</p><p>Before the group can hypothesize about the exact variety of wanker that might be overjoyed at such a gift, there is a commotion from the kitchen. The first courses are about to be served - meaning that the first wines must all be poured <em> immediately. </em>Sam and Jamie brusquely walk off to begin assisting in the arduous process, leaving her and Malcolm alone. Again.</p><p>Everything progresses smoothly from there, massive quantities of salads turning to half-empty plates, replaced by more small plates, replaced in turn by mains. Servers shuffling back and forth with cutlery and glassware, fresh linens and bottle after bottle of wine. Satisfied that everything is under control, Malcolm reaches into a large plastic tub of mostly melted ice and removes a near-full bottle of the Austrian white from the first course. </p><p>"Right. They don’t need us here - there’s gonna be speech after speech and I think I saw somebody setting up a projector for a fuckin’ slideshow.” He wipes the sopping wet bottle with a napkin and then reaches under a shelf for two plastic cups. “Let’s go find somewhere to drink this in peace, shall we?”</p><p>“Are we bunking off?” she laughs, breathless at the speed they sneak out through the service corridor. He doesn't answer her - instead continuing on whatever quest it is he's decided to drag her on. They cross through another hall and into a stairwell, climbing up a flight and then passing out into another hallway. “Where are we <em> going</em>?”</p><p>“Almost there - worked a wedding here about this time last year and if I can recall correctly there’s a fuckin’ - ah yes,” he stops when they come around another corner. “Here we go.”</p><p>They’re standing on a walkway from which you can see the entire massive open-air lobby. The view is spectacular - the entrance way is ornately decorated for the holiday with beautiful lights and ribbons and poinsettias. The whole area is dominated by a tremendously tall Christmas tree, easily four meters in height if not more. The sight leaves Nicola stunned.</p><p>“Christ, Malcolm. This is fucking beautiful,” she gasps. Placing a cup full of wine in her hand, he offers her a playful bow. She extends her beverage for a toast. “To offsite catering events and stuffy charity dinners on Christmas Eve. And to the little lizard that looks like you.”</p><p>They stay there for the better part of an hour, drinking heavily and watching the people mill about below them. Malcolm starts a game in which they invent backstories for every person who checks in and out, getting increasingly outlandish and vulgar as they go. He is describing the rent boy waiting upstairs for the balding pastor rudely berating a bellboy, when he stops mid-sentence. </p><p>“Oh, fuck. No - I’m not doin’ this,” Malcolm turns around quickly, hiding his face from a man coming out of the gents in the hallway. “Shittin’ Wilfred Jones.”</p><p>“Sorry - who?” Nicola asks. The wine has already gone to her head - her question is loud enough that the man turns to look in their direction. Malcolm groans and reaches for her hand, pulling her towards the end of the walkway.</p><p>“Wilfred fuckin’ Jones. He fancies himself a bit of a wino, thinks he has a real nice collection,” he rolls his eyes so hard Nicola fancies they might get stuck. The man’s worse than Katie, sometimes. “If he catches me I’m gonna be stuck listenin’ to him drone on and on about how many shittin’ points Robert Parker gave this and Robert fuckin’ Parker gave that. Here, get in.”</p><p>She’s too tipsy and laughing far too hard at Malcolm finding someone mediocre enough to actively <em> hide </em> from to notice where they’re going, to realize where Malcolm is hiding them. It doesn’t click for her until the lift doors have closed and he’s pressing the button for the top floor. Then the panic descends.</p><p>“Oh shit. God. No, Malcolm - I can’t - you don’t - “ The small room is getting smaller and her heart starts to race, her breath coming out of her in great gasps.</p><p>“Nic’la?” His voice seems to come from another dimension. “Christ - what’s wrong?”</p><p>She stammers out something resembling an explanation, shaking her head. “It’s - lifts. Claustrophobic. Can’t do it.”</p><p>“Okay - fuck. Look, we’re halfway up. Just close your fuckin’ eyes, yeah? Just hold onto the rail and close ‘em tight and we’ll be out in a minute.”</p><p>Closing her eyes helps a little - maybe, if she pretends. “I can’t do this. Malcolm, I can’t - “</p><p>Placing the wine bottle on the floor with a loud clunk, his free hand finds hers, lacing their fingers together. <em> That </em>is more panic-inducing than the lift. It may not have been his goal but she’s so startled by the gesture that it completely clears her head. An empty white tabula rasa.</p><p>Until the lift stops. Grinding to a halt between floors 12 and 13.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. </em>
</p><p>The fear is so intense that she simply ceases to exist. She’d be embarrassed if her brain was able to process any of what was transpiring around her. Nicola just sort of <em> crumples</em>, sliding down the wall and sitting on the floor with her head to her knees.</p><p>“Nic’la? Shit - Talk to me. Don’t go fuckin’ mental on me now, it doesn’t suit you.” Eyes closed, she is aware of Malcolm coming to rest next to her. She tries to talk but no words come out - this is quite literally her worst fear. The first time Nicola Murray gets in a lift in <em> ten years </em>and she gets stuck. How fucking stupid.</p><p>And then - a rustling next to her and the feeling of something draped over her shoulders. Is he <em> covering her </em> with his jacket? She can’t seem to open her eyes to confirm it, hearing the sound of him taking a hearty swig straight from the bottle in the darkness. There’s a clicking of buttons - he must have pressed the service alarm. And then Malcolm sits next to her. Close enough that she can feel him.</p><p>“Nic’la. I need you to breathe for me.” She’s never heard him speak this gently. Not even talking to Ella. “I need you to open your eyes if you can and just <em> breathe. </em> If you keep carrying on like this you’re going to fuckin’ hyperventilate and black out on me now.”</p><p>It’s all she can manage to shake her head.</p><p>“Here.” He takes her hand in his and places it on his chest. “You feel me breathin’? Do that. In. Out. In. Out. Like that. See, I even <em> breathe </em> better than you.”</p><p>She laughs a little in spite of herself. The fear is still present but becoming somewhat manageable. “I thought it was Jamie and Sam you were trying to get plastered and trapped in a lift.”</p><p>“That was knackered in a cupboard. Big diff’rence,” he scolds. She notices that his tongue is doing that thick, lazy thing it does when he’s been drinking heavily. “Now, can you please open your bleedin’ eyes for me?”</p><p>She keeps focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, timing the way that she breathes. After three more exhales, Nicola finds it within her to open her eyes. The way he is <em> looking </em>at her - all of his features contorted in concern - coupled with the relief that washes over him at seeing her make even the slimmest progress is enough to make Nicola’s heart stop all over again.</p><p>“Look - other than the apparently fuckin’ cripplin’ aversion to lifts that you really should’ve told me about at lit’rally any point in fuckin’ time - this isn’t the worst thing is it?” He reaches for the bottle and pours into her cup with a slosh. “We have ample wine, it’s nice and cool and air conditioned <em> and </em> Wilfred fuckin’ Jones can’t possibly get to us now.”</p><p>“No. I guess it isn’t the <em> worst </em> thing. Other than the mortal terror coursing through my very being right now, yeah. I’d say this is pretty ideal. All things considered.” She tries to be game about this, to squash the fear down into her belly and act like a reasonable adult. But she can’t - her lip trembles when she talks and there’s a very real possibility she might faint. “No - no it’s not fucking ideal. Malcolm, I can’t - I am going to come unglued in here.”</p><p>“What can I do? How do I help?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she swallows, looking at her shoes to stop the room from spinning. “Talk. Distract me.”</p><p>“Alright - I can distract you. I can talk. I’m good at talkin’ right? I’m fuckin’ aces at that. I’m like Winston fuckin’ Churchill. Plenty of people are jealous of my oratorical prowess, yeah? Here - drink. You’ll need it.” With a weak smile, he gestures at her cup and she takes a generous sip. It’s not enough to appease him, waving his hand towards it again.</p><p>“Drink more. C’mon. Trust me, you need more for this - if you want me to distract you I’m gonna right fuckin’ distract you. This is goin’ to be very fuckin’ distracting. Because I need you to not just … keel over and die on me in this stupid shitty lift at a charity dinner on Christmas Eve while I’m wearing a fuckin’ paper crown.” There’s a bitterness to his grin, fanged and feral, as he undoes his bow tie and loosens the top button of his collar. She’s not sure what exactly she’s unleashed in him - but it’s working. The unease about whatever he’s about to tell her is starting to vie for her attention, pulling her focus from the tiny metal box they’re trapped in.</p><p>“Alright? You ready? For a big ol’ distraction? I used to <em> hate </em> you. How’s that for distractin’?” He waves his cup in the air, a few drops of wine spilling onto the floor.</p><p>“I already figured that, you fucking twat,” Nicola huffs at the anticlimax. “You hate <em> everyone </em> at first. That’s your baseline. Just casual deep-seated antipathy. You came out of the womb scowling at the nurses for their incompetence. Made rude gestures at all the other babies.”</p><p>“Yeah, but <em>you</em>? You were special.” Malcolm shakes his head vehemently. “Look at that, Nic’la Murray bein’ special at something! You came in and I <em> wanted </em> to hate you so fuckin’ completely.”</p><p>“Hang on - you said you hated me but now you <em> wanted </em>to hate me? That implies you didn’t hate me.” She’s verging on pissed while he’s already comfortably sloshed. Neither party's logical skills are particularly sharp. Nicola can’t tell if she’s having trouble following or if he’s not making any sense to begin with.</p><p>“Let me fuckin’ finish, darlin’. You came in there all fuckin’ middle-class and <em> posh </em> and - I <em> hate </em> your type.” Leaning his head back against the wall, he growls his words, venomous and harsh. “Always have. You don’t need the job. You don’t <em> want </em> the job or care. It’s just somethin’ to do. Workin’ out some kind of mid-life crisis and using the restaurant to do that. But for me it’s - this is fuckin’ everything for me, ken?  I got nothin’ else. This is my <em> life. </em> My wife fuckin’ left me because - this is it. I live for it. Breathe for it. And then I got people like you comin’ in and just slackin’ off and not giving a single solitary fuckin’ <em> ounce </em> of a goddamn fuck. Because what does it matter to you lot?”</p><p>He pauses to take another drink and absentmindedly rubs at the pin on his lapel, steeling himself before continuing.</p><p>“So you came in there with your stupid fuckin’ smile and you kept - you kept being so nice? You tried and you cared and you were even nice to <em> Ollie </em> - who fuckin’ doesn’t immediately want to put Ollie through a meat grinder? Fuckin’ - bespectacled bendy lookin’ <em> twat</em>.”</p><p>Nicola interrupts his little tangent of dislike to clarify. “Oh no, I did hate him on sight. That was absolutely instantaneous. Like a bolt from the blue. Loathe at first sight. Have never for a moment enjoyed his presence.”</p><p>“Point fuckin’ being,” He looks away from her, biting at a thumbnail. “I was so determined to <em> not </em> like you and then I come outside and you’re just <em> weeping </em> like a babe over that girl with the nut problem. You don’t ken her from Adam! She wouldn’t give two shites about you, given the chance. It wasn’t even <em> your fuckin’ fault. </em> But you’re just sittin’ there losin’ your mind about it! And I - something in my stupid whithered up fuckin’ dead sheep’s testicle of a heart decided I <em> liked </em>you?” </p><p>It’s worked. Nicola has completely forgotten that she is in a lift. Instead the entire universe - her entire life - hinges on the incomprehensible drunken tirade pouring from his lips. She notices for the first time just how <em> tired </em> he really looks.</p><p>“I told you - on your birthday with the fuckin’ chips - I told you that you were the chip. That’s a fuckin’ lie, Nic’la. I’m the chip. I’m the bloody fuckin’ greasy bit of root veg at the bottom of a folded newspaper. I’m the fuckin’ street rat from Glasgow who can’t keep a marriage together for fuck all and you’re the posh slag with a husband whose got an investment portfolio and a nice fam’ly. You’re the fuckin’ pedigreed champagne and I’m just the fuckin’ chip. Everything comes so easy to your lot. With your full bellies and your nice schools. I had to scrabble and scrape with my fuckin’ bare teeth and my nails and work myself to half to death to get here. I grew up hungry lit’rally and figuratively - I started waitin’ tables and I saw, <em> really saw, </em> the way they all lived.” His voice cracks and she wishes that for just a <em> second </em> he would turn and look at her. “And I knew I couldn’t buy it myself - but I could be better at it than they could. Maybe I couldn’t fuckin’ <em> go </em>to Provence but I could learn more about it than they ever fuckin’ dreamed. Each fuckin’ wine was like a wee time capsule - a capture of that place in the world in that precise year. I could travel from my fuckin’ books and from the insides of bottles. I didn’t need to go to school for that - I just had to work harder than any of ‘em. Pour my fuckin’ blood and sweat and fuckin’ cum into it.”</p><p>He sighs, shoulders slumped and flicks derisively at the red and gold pin, sneering in disgust. “But at the end of the day - to them I’m still just the help. Doesn’t matter I only had to sit for my Masters <em> twice. </em> Doesn’t fuckin’ matter there’s only two hundred of us! I’m still the fuckin’ help.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>Malcolm</em> - “ Nicola places a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he immediately brushes it away.</p><p>“So you come in, right? And I think to myself - here’s another one who just doesn’t fuckin’ get it. But then you try harder than any of us. You actually <em> listen to me. </em> You keep being so stupidly fuckin' kind and genuine and real. And what do you get for that?” The laugh that bubbles from his lips is small and mean and completely devoid of mirth. “The least competent management staff in all creation. Tables that treat you like shit. I treat you like shit, fuckin’ goin’ off on you left and right. Your husband fuckin’ ignores you - forgets your <em> birthday </em> - and I just watch. I just watch this beautiful fuckin’ doe-eyed, bleedin’ heart disaster of a woman get treated like fuckin’ rubbish. Why? Because he has stock options and games of squash and weekend trips to the seaside?”</p><p>Malcolm is well and properly drunk. She’s certain of it now. And whatever he’s saying - whatever this unending stream of word vomit <em>means -</em> is something he would never dare utter sober. She realizes that she needs desperately to intervene. To plug the dike before they both drown. “Well - I’m certainly distracted now.”</p><p>“You know,” He doesn’t even hear her - carried away by his own manifesto. “I’m certainly a better fuck than - “</p><p>“Malcolm - why did you bring me here?” It’s been bothering her since they first got in the car. Gnawing at the back of her skull. This feeling that something about tonight isn’t <em> quite </em> right. “Tom didn’t ask for me to come did he? You’ve got Jamie. You’ve got Sam. You’re not even <em> doing anything.</em>”</p><p>He goes totally still. When he speaks it is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want you to have to be alone.”</p><p>“That’s not it. That’s not it and you know it.” The way he’s avoiding her eyes - picking at the rim of his cup. It’s coming to her now, all of the jagged shards from the evening coalescing into one clear image.</p><p>“Course that’s it,” he insists. It’s the least convincing lie she’s ever heard. “Just bein’ nice.”</p><p>And then it hits her. What he said earlier, in the stairwell of the garage. About putting Jamie and Sam here on purpose. The look on his face when she answered the door. His ‘better half.’ Dragging her to go look at a fucking Christmas tree. She cradles her face in her hands. Christ alive - how could she be so <em> fucking </em> dense?  “Malcolm, for fuck’s sake - is this a <em> date</em>?”</p><p>“Does it feel like it?” Damn him and his stupid fucking deflections. His chronic inability to answer a straightforward question about himself.</p><p>“Is. This. A date?” She hisses through her teeth, fancying that she’s gone totally insane. Maybe the moment the lift doors closed she had a psychotic break and absolutely <em>none</em> of this is even real. She’s currently on a stretcher being hauled off to a psychiatric hospital, foaming at the mouth and mumbling about Christmas crackers.<br/>
<br/>
Before he can answer there is a terrible screech and a lurch as the lift rises the extra meter to the next floor.</p><p>The doors slide open, revealing a concerned-looking custodian in coveralls. The man offers Nicola his hand and helps her to stand. He asks in a thick Geordie accent if the lady is alright.<br/>
<br/>
No. Nicola is very much not alright. Nicola is not alright at all. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah yes, the time honored tradition of bunking off at a catering event and getting absolutely hammered. And I finally said the <i>fucking title.</i> 37k words in. Christ.</p><p>Orange wines are white wines that are allowed to sit on their skins and seeds for anywhere from several days to a year, instead of being immediately strained and separated after being mashed. The extra skin contact gives them an orange hue. This entire story popped into my head based on this pun alone, if you can believe that.</p><p>Chapter title comes from the Wachau system of wine classification - the three levels are each named for something native to that region. Steinfeder for a grass that grows on the Wachau hillsides, Federspiel for a trained falcon or falconer, and Smaragd for a small variety of emerald colored lizard. The kind that Nicola thinks Malcolm looks like.</p><p>On a completely different and somewhat personal note: as I'm rounding third base and heading home on this monster of a project, I've grown really accustomed to hearing y'all's voices and will be terribly sad when this is done. I've also noticed a fair amount of cross-chatter in the comments as well. Would anyone be interested in a Discord server to wax about ttoi/iannucci/rebecca front/literally anything? 2020 has been a <i>helluva</i> fucking year and it might be a nice distraction.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. mull, mulling, mulled.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s an alarm somewhere. Each high-pitched sound prods her gently in the temple.</p><p>It takes a few chirps before Nicola truly regains consciousness. Her sleep-addled brain keeps deflecting the insistent electronic beeps, relegating them to unimportant background fodder. Eventually, like the increasing pressure on her bladder, they become too much to sleep through.</p><p>Rolling over, her cheek comes into contact with a sharp piece of metal. Upon further examination, her bleary eyes struggling to focus, it is revealed to be the zipper of a skirt. Nicola paws at the bed next to her, immediately coming to rest on a pair of wool trousers. Last night begins to slide into focus - she never put those clothes away. Like a teenager, she settled for pushing them over and curling up next to them. Sliding back the covers, she is relieved to find that she found the energy within herself to at least change into pajamas before falling asleep. A minor victory.</p><p>The phone is still making its infuriating beeps, reminding her semi-lucid brain that it is <em> Christmas, Nicola, </em> and very soon her former husband will be arriving with 75% of their progeny. With a groan, she throws her legs over the side of the bed and begins the arduous process of joining the land of the living, shuffling her way to the en suite. All the while images from last night flash through her brain, a disjointed slideshow of recollection.</p><p>Malcolm on her doorstep in a tux. A very large Christmas tree and a man named Wilfred. Baked brie with fig jam. Jamie <em> smiling </em> for once. Then - Jamie decidedly <em> not </em> smiling as he makes sure that a very inebriated and prickly Malcolm gets in a taxi.</p><p>Catching her ghastly reflection in the mirror, Nicola is immensely pleased to see that she <em> did </em> remove her make-up before rolling into a ball of despair and passing out. That the used towelettes are strewn all over the counter and on the floor <em> near </em>the rubbish bin instead of inside it, is beside the point. She sits to piss, continuing her unraveling of last night’s events. There’s an image of Sam, laughing at a rude joke of Malcolm’s. Something about a miniature nutmeg grater. Comparing Jamie and Sam to pandas. And then - staring at her knickers between her knees, she recalls very acutely <em> why </em>she ended up crying herself to sleep.</p><p>They <em> shared </em> a cab. Malcolm was being rather uncooperative about leaving before everything was totally over. But Sam and Jamie seemed to think it best that, in his rather booze-soaked and emotionally disturbed condition, he left before anyone of great import really noticed. In an effort to placate him, Nicola insisted that <em> she </em> wanted to leave early and that he needed to take her home because she was too drunk to take a cab herself. The fact that none of that was true - and was completely fabricated by Sam - didn’t seem to occur to him.</p><p>They didn’t talk much on the drive to Nicola’s. In fact, they didn’t speak at all. Malcolm pretended that his extremely theatrical fucking <em> mental break </em> never happened. The one in which he all but said ‘Nicola I’m sorry’, ‘Nicola I have a chip on my shoulder the size of a small sedan’, ‘Nicola I’m hard on you because I’m an emotionally stunted <em> infant’, </em> ‘Nicola I can’t find it in me to hate you in fact I might actually care about you in my bizarre fucked-off kind of way’, and the most baffling - ‘Nicola I <em> fuck </em> better than your sad middle-class flop of an ex-husband.’</p><p>And she could <em>almost</em> be okay with that. She spent the last five years with James in a state of thorough denial. This was Nicola’s wheelhouse. They could sit in a silent detente, staring out of the rear windows as the streets rolled by. Mutually ignorant of the other’s presence. She held out very gamely, with a distinctly stiff-upper lip, until the moment the cab parked in front of her home.</p><p>She left the stupid fucking Christmas tree lit. It was just <em> staring </em>at her through the living room window. All warm and cozy and golden in her empty house. As if to say ‘Happy Christmas, you lonely wanker.’</p><p>Her phone rings, bringing her back to the present. She stands and flushes the toilet, washes her hands, and nearly trips in her haste to catch her phone before it stops ringing. It’s her <em> mother. </em> Excellent.</p><p>“Hello, Mother. Happy Christmas.” Her attempt at sounding pleasant and chipper is a resounding failure. She sounds like a veterinarian announcing the family dog must be put down. “Listen - do you mind if I put you on speaker? I’ve just woken up, and I’ve got loads to do before James gets here with the children.”</p><p>She begrudgingly consents to Nicola’s suggestion, and begins almost immediately to hound her with questions. What did she do for Christmas Eve? How is her job? What are their plans for the day? How is James holding up his end of things? Is she getting enough rest? What are they eating for dinner? Nicola answers them all as politely as possible, all the while making sense of the clothing spread on her bed. She is in the middle of wrestling a high-necked blouse onto a hanger when her mother asks the question that makes her stomach drop.</p><p><em>“Are you seeing anyone yet, dear?</em>”</p><p>There isn’t an easy answer for that.</p><p>For a brief moment last night she thought <em> maybe </em> she was. Sitting in the idling taxi, that ridiculous glowing tree challenging her through the window, she realized she couldn’t go inside. She told Malcolm that much - that she simply couldn’t bear the actuality of an empty house on Christmas Eve. Rolling his eyes, he growled at the driver to leave the meter running and wait for him. And he told her in no uncertain terms - she was <em> going in that house. </em>He insisted on walking her to the door just to prove it.</p><p>
  <em>“Dear? Are you still there?” </em>
</p><p>Malcolm had invited her to a bloody charity dinner. In a <em> tuxedo</em>. He fed her repulsive paté and snuck her off to see a Christmas tree, while wearing a ridiculous fucking paper crown. After which he proceeded to drunkenly cleave his soul in two, sitting on the floor of a busted lift, and dumped the contents into her lap. </p><p>Then he walked her to her door.</p><p>Naturally, Nicola had made a certain assumption. Standing on her doorstep, his bow-tie hanging so endearingly from his open collar, she felt a wash of affection for him. And in a moment of complete <em>lunacy </em>she leaned in to kiss him.</p><p>And he dodged it.<br/>
<br/>
The squirrelly fucker <em>ducked out of the way</em>.</p><p>Just enough - but not completely. Trying to salvage a thimbleful of dignity, she instead settled into a light hug. To make matters worse, he didn’t even have the common courtesy to hug back. He just … stood there. Immobile. It was like hugging a coat rack. Nicola had never been this embarrassed in her <em> life. </em> And she once vomited all over a boy’s shoes while snogging at a university party. <em> This </em> was worse.</p><p>“Sorry, yeah. Still here. And no. I’m not.” As much she briefly allowed herself to believe it, no. Nicola was not and is not <em> seeing anyone. </em>Having conquered the garment heap, she begins to dress for the day while continuing to fumble at small talk with her mother. She is considerate enough to avoid the topic of men entirely after Nicola’s curt denial that anything is happening on that front. Instead, she regales her daughter with descriptions of the weather in Florida and the idiosyncrasies of American Christmas traditions. As Nicola tugs a pair of well-loved corduroy trousers over her hips, she begins to describe some kind of twenty-four hour telly looping of a film about a child who wants a gun for Christmas. Before she can ask for any elaboration, the phone starts to beep for an incoming call.</p><p>“Mother, I have to let you go,” Nicola grunts, thrusting her head through the neck of a burgundy jumper. “James is calling - he’s probably here already. Yes, I love you too. Yes. I’ll have the children call later. Okay - bye.”</p><p>There is a great fuss at the door. The children are over excited and laden with gifts and from the way Ben seems to be <em> vibrating </em>all over, Nicola assumes they have consumed their body weight in sugar. They practically explode into the house, Ella wanting desperately to go be alone in her room and Ben hollering about setting up the new raceway for his toy cars. Per usual, Rosie is glued to her video game. To her credit, she does look up for a half second to offer Nicola a polite ‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’</p><p>This leaves James hovering awkwardly in the foyer - unwilling to stand in the cold but not daring to step further into the house. Nicola takes a perverse joy in his discomfort.</p><p>“So, Nic,” he stutters, running a hand over his balding head. “How are things? Your job alright and all that?”</p><p>“Things are fine. Work is fine. New Years looks to be an absolute fucking nightmare, but - “ She catches herself sliding into their old rhythm of conversation and stops herself. Glancing over her shoulder into the sitting room, she’s reassured that none of the children are within earshot. “No, you know what? Don’t pretend like you care. You didn’t care when you lived here. And that’s fine, honestly. I’m not angry. I’m past that. But let’s be honest with each other, yeah?”</p><p>He frowns slightly, hands in his pockets, and sighs in agreement. “S’fair. You’re absolutely right. I mean - I do care about you though. Are you seeing anybody? I do want you to be happy.”</p><p>“Oh for fuck’s sake, James.” The words taste bitter on her tongue. How did she ever delude herself into thinking she <em> loved </em>him? This uninspired shiftless thing in chinos. “Don’t. You want me to be happy so you can feel better about yourself. Don’t come here trying to assuage your guilt - thinking that if I’m shagging someone else by now that what you’ve done doesn’t matter.” </p><p>“I don’t <em> hate </em> you, James. I can’t bring myself to care enough. But don’t think that I don’t blame you. You made the decision to-” she looks again to make sure that no one is listening, lowering her voice just in case. The last thing she needs is to scar her children any further than the experience already has. “To sleep with someone else. For a <em> year. </em> You did actually <em> hurt </em> me. And another man in your old bed isn’t going to undo that. You can’t just plug a different cock into the hole in my heart. You fucking arse. I can be civil and I can even be <em> kind, </em>but don’t you dare bring me your pity or your false goodwill.” </p><p>“I wasn’t a very good husband, was I?” He mutters with a chagrined smile, shuffling on his feet. Nicola feels an acute pang of sympathy for whoever the poor fool is that has tethered herself to him. Maybe she’s equally spineless.</p><p>“No. Not really.” James winces at the admission and she feels a bit mean for it. Reluctantly, she offers him the tiniest of olive branches. “You were a decent father, when you took the time to give a shit. And the kids do <em> love </em> you. Try not to fuck that up, too. Happy Christmas, James.”</p><p>As she closes the door and makes her way to the sitting room, Nicola is distinctly pleased with herself. Spending time in the ring with Malcolm Tucker has toughened her up, for better or worse. Never would she have spoken to James like that before. And she doesn’t regret it one bit.</p><p>Thinking of Malcolm, she opens her phone and attempts to compose a text. What should she even say? ‘Happy Christmas’ is a bit too impersonal. But ‘sorry I got confused and tried to snog you’ doesn’t really fit either. She’s just finished typing a thoroughly insufficient ‘are we okay?’ when Ben insists on showing her his brand new dump truck. Nicola decides to leave it unsent, for now. Christmas belongs to her children - not to some angular hissing Scotsman with an anger problem. A man whose relation to her grows less definable by the day.</p><p>There are presents to be opened and cards to be read. They eat cakes and snap photographs, even going so far as to set-up a video call with her parents. Nicola decides to go for broke and mull some wine, giving the whole house a delightfully Christmas-y scent. But all of that lasts for only a few hours, the children eventually retreating to different corners of the house to play with their shiny new things. Nicola ends up settled on the sofa with Ben sprawled in her lap, half-watching some banal animated Christmas special.</p><p>Her phone rings, a welcome salvation from the current mind-numbing block of children’s holiday programming. She had dimly hoped for Malcolm but realistically expected it to be her mother again. Instead, it’s a number she doesn’t recognize. Letting it go to voicemail, the mystery caller hangs up and tries her again. It must be important then. Whoever it is.</p><p>She absolutely did not anticipate it being <em> Sam. </em></p><p>“Listen, I know it’s Christmas and all.” Her voice is a bit muffled and staticky - it sounds like she’s speaking on a car phone. “But - I’m headed home from my parents’ and your house is actually on my way. And it’s - it’s important. <em> Really</em>. I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t.”</p><p>Nicola relents, weighing her options and deciding she isn’t losing too much by letting her evening be hijacked as such. Ben’s eyelids are drooping lower by the minute. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be much choice. Sam has never once approached Nicola on her own. Certainly never asked anything of her. </p><p>Within ten minutes of hanging up, Sam is seated at Nicola’s kitchen table, looking decidedly worse for wear. Nicola had offered her tea or coffee or a cup of mulled wine. Sam asked for a lager instead.</p><p>“Now,” Nicola prods gently, setting a slender green bottle down in front of her. “What seems to be the problem?”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’ve done. Frankly, I don’t <em> care. </em> That’s strictly between the two of you,” she swallows thickly, picking at the paper label. “But you need to fix it. Now.”</p><p>Confused, Nicola frowns. “I haven’t the slightest -”</p><p>“Oh, please. You know <em> exactly </em> why I am here.” Taking a small sip of her brew, she rolls her eyes at Nicola’s ignorance. She massages her temple before continuing. “It’s Malcolm. He’s a fucking <em> disaster. </em> He’s collapsing inwardly like a spectacularly poorly made souffle. Only the souffle is the size of fucking Camden Town and it’s going to take us all down with it. I’ve never seen him go so publicly off the rails. I’ve heard snippets from Jamie about what it was like when Evie left. According to him, this is starting to go much the same way. You should’ve heard him after you both left last night - Jamie’s bloody <em> terrified.</em>”</p><p>She shakes her head, staring at a corner of the ceiling. It hadn’t occurred to Nicola until <em> watching </em> her talk about them just how much of a role Sam plays in both Jamie and Malcolm’s lives. How much she cares about them both. “He has post-traumatic stress from the whole ordeal. He can’t watch Malcolm go down that path again. It doesn’t help that his response to fear is to lash out at everything like a rabid fucking dog. If I wasn’t there last night - he would’ve broken into Malcolm’s flat through a window and strangled him. Or fucked him. Or strangled him <em> and </em>fucked him. And then he would’ve come for you.” </p><p>Any lingering questions that Nicola had about the nature of Jamie’s feelings or Sam’s awareness of them are answered. But that still doesn’t explain why she’s telling <em> her </em>any of this.</p><p>“I’m sorry - but I really don’t follow you.”</p><p>“Nicola. You’re a reasonably intelligent human being. Don’t play coy.” Sam actually <em> laughs </em>at her now. And maybe Nicola is being willfully ignorant. But whatever Sam is getting at - she didn’t see him in the lift last night. And she didn’t watch him dodge her like a fucking mosquito either.</p><p>“Malcolm was <em> fine. </em> He was actually, for the first time in a <em> long time, </em> thriving. And then you show up and he just fucking crumbles,” Sam waves a manicured hand in the air to illustrate her point. There’s an edge to her voice - Nicola can’t tell if she’s angrier at her or Malcolm. “Turns into an absolute omnishambles. You have no idea - I don’t think <em> he </em> has any idea just how much Jamie and I have been fixing for him. The amount of bloody interference we’ve been running. I’ve been cross checking all of his inventories and ordering behind his back. And let me tell you - I’ve caught my fair share of mistakes. Really <em>really </em>big mistakes.”</p><p>She pauses for a moment, weighing just how much detail Nicola needs. Malcolm really doesn’t understand just how much Jamie and Sam do for him. “That private dinner with the Italian dignitary? The night after you got shit-housed and called him a cunt? Had a blow-out lovers quarrel in the wine room?”</p><p>“How do <em> you </em> know about that?” Nicola’s jaw hangs open rather stupidly. She genuinely thought that was a secret.</p><p>“Please,” Sam smirks at her, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief. “You don’t think that no one was there to hear that? Not a single busboy? Don’t be so naive. Regardless - Jesus fucking Christ, Nicola. The man was a mess. Couldn’t get his shit together to save his life. He actually <em> broke </em> a cork. Torn it clean in two. I’ve never seen his hands shake so badly. All because <em> you </em> told him off.”</p><p>“Why are you coming to me with this?” She understands what Sam is hinting at  - what she’s been talking around since she sat down. But Malcolm is willful. And if last night’s rebuffing is any indication - there’s really nothing she can do. “What do you expect me to do?”</p><p>“I don’t know how much longer Jamie and I can cover for him. Eventually we’re going to miss something.” There’s a deep exhaustion written across her face. She sounds almost fearful, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. “But more than that - well. There’s rumors.”</p><p>“Rumors?”</p><p>“First off - I’ve heard they’re bringing Steve Fleming back on.” She spits the name out, disgusted at its presence on her lips. “We should know for sure in a couple of days, but it seems Tom’s been considering it for some time now. Last night, while Malcolm was swanning about with you - Jamie saw the rat bastard cozying up to Tom. If he had his nose any further up his arse, he’d be wearing Tom as a balaclava. It’s why Jamie was so intent on sneaking Malcolm out of there. God - if he ran into Steve in that condition? There would’ve been a murder.”</p><p>Nicola had initially poured herself a cup of wine to make Sam feel more comfortable. Now, she finds that she needs it. “Who is this <em>Steve</em> fucker?”</p><p>“He and Tom came up on the scene at the same time. Back when Tom opened Ten, Steve put the wine programme together. Malcolm had <em> just </em>gotten his Masters certification and it was right after Evie had left.” Nicola notes that while Sam feels comfortable doing so, Jamie never seems to be able to bring himself to utter her name. There’s a lot to unpack there - but Nicola isn’t quite so sure she wants to look at any of that dirty laundry.  “So he threw himself into his work and consequently muscled Steve out. This has left them on decidedly less than friendly terms.”</p><p>“Lately, with Malcolm spending so much time at Dos, Tom’s started to think he needs someone at Ten full-time. Doesn’t matter that <em> I </em> should be next in line. Fucking <em> arsehole.</em>” Sam visibly struggles to maintain her composure. This is about Malcolm, and not her petty grievances with Tom.</p><p>“Let me get this straight.” Nicola is beginning to sense where this is going. And she very much does not like it. “Because Malcolm has been spending so much time with <em> me, </em>he’s being replaced?”</p><p>Sam winces, making a noncommittal gesture with the bottle in her hand. “Not replaced exactly. Technically he’s just being <em> supplemented.</em> But Malcolm won’t take it that way - he fucking <em> hates </em> Steve. For good reason. The man is a skin-suit stuffed with human shit and incompetence. This is going to <em> cripple </em> him, Nicola.”</p><p>Fuck. Fucking <em> fuck. </em> She’s like Rumpelstiltskin, only everything she touches spins into <em> shit. </em> “You said there were rumors. <em>Plural. </em> What’s the rest of it?”</p><p>“Dos isn’t making the money it should be. That’s a fact - you know better than anyone. You’ve seen the numbers.” Sam’s right of course. Even though things are improving, Nicola is just barely pulling them up out of the nosedive Hugh threw them into. They’re lucky to not be in the red. “And Ten <em> looks </em> good. But the operating costs are so fucking astronomically high they’re barely covering their overhead. There’s been chatter among the investors. Dan Miller is one of the ringleaders - he’s got the biggest stake in the company. They’re thinking of buying Tom out. Malcolm would <em> know </em> this if he could divert some of the blood flow from his cock to his cerebral cortex.”</p><p>Nicola grimaces at this and she smiles apologetically. “Sorry, that was graphic. But I’ve made my point.”</p><p>So Tom gets bought out. So what? Nicola has all the pieces in front of her but can’t make them fit. “Why is this so catastrophic for Malcolm?”</p><p>“Tom likes Malcolm. And he’s an absolute <em> fucking genius </em> at what he does and I owe him so terribly much. But let’s face it. He’s like drinking fucking kerosene. Nobody else would keep him on staff, and certainly not at the salary level that Tom does.” Sam trills her lips in resignation, closing her eyes. “No. If Dan Miller takes over then Malcolm is <em> gone. </em>Especially if Fleming’s around. The slimy fucker will pour himself right into Dan’s ear.”</p><p>So the great Malcolm Tucker is driving headlong off a cliff and hasn’t the slightest idea. Lovely.</p><p>“But <em>why</em> is he spending so much time at Dos?” It’s a question Nicola is rather certain of the answer to, but it’s certainly not an answer she wants to hear. “At the expense of his own bloody career?”</p><p>“Malcolm … likes a project.” There’s a tenderness to the way that Sam describes it, a wistful grin on her lips. “That’s what we are Nicola. Me. You. Hell - even Jamie. Malcolm doesn’t want to work on himself. That would require an acknowledgement that he actually has faults. So on the rare occasion that he finds someone actually <em> worth his time, </em> he pours himself into <em> them </em> instead. He’s Doctor fucking Moreau. And we’re his island of misfits.”</p><p>She takes a moment to drink again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Only - you’re different. I think he set out trying to fix you, in the beginning. And then - Nicola, you aren’t <em> blind</em>. You have to see it. You can’t possibly be that dense.”</p><p>Nicola knows what Sam is going to say before she says it. But it doesn’t rob the words of any of their power.</p><p>“The man is in <em> love with you</em>. He’s carrying it around with him like a fucking cross, and I don’t know how much longer he can keep this up before he self-destructs.”</p><p>“Why not <em> tell </em> me?” This is absolutely mental. Malcolm Tucker has never once hesitated to speak his mind. And yet - here he sits letting a bloody <em> crush </em> obliterate his career beyond any hope of recovery. “Is he <em>that</em> afraid of rejection?”</p><p>“Oh, God no. You really don't see it? It's so obvious.” Caught somewhere between pity and annoyance at Nicola's lack of understanding, Sam gapes at her. “Malcolm’s terrified that you’ll <em>love him back</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Nicola feels as though she is sitting on the ocean floor - the pressure is going to crush her ribs into her lungs. On the bright side, she feels considerably less embarrassed about being brushed off last night. Actually - now she’s just mad. Fucking <em> prick. </em> </p><p>The sound of the refrigerator opening is startling enough that both of them jump. Nicola turns to see Ella’s feet poking out from underneath the door.</p><p>“Ella, you better not be getting into that cake. I told you - one slice. That’s all the sugar I want you having.” Nicola turns to Sam with an apologetic shrug, Ella loudly slamming the refrigerator shut and stomping away.</p><p>“Listen, you have a lot going on. It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake.” Sam stands, finishing her beer and fishing her keys out of her coat pocket. “Thank you for talking to me. I care about Malcolm too much to just sit back and watch him self-immolate. I know too many people who would stop to toast marshmallows.”</p><p>When she steps out of the front door Nicola lingers for a moment and leans against the frame. If they’re going to be honest with each other, she might as well tell Sam everything. “You know - Malcolm’s been trying like hell to get you and Jamie together.”</p><p>“I know. Believe me,” Sam smiles sadly at her feet. “Jamie’s just been staring at the sun a bit too long to see much of anything else. Besides - feels a little bit like being a consolation prize, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Nicola doesn't send Malcolm that text message after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter is much <i>shorter</i> than I intended - but it felt like such a natural stopping point that I didn't want to add anything else. I got Sambushed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. a remarkable vintage.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She can’t seem to catch him alone. Not since what Sam and Jamie have dubbed ‘the incident’. Not since that regrettable moment of impulse on her front steps. Malcolm makes sure that he is always with someone, <em> anyone </em> else when she’s around. Nicola has never seen him find so many excuses to make conversation with Glenn. On more than one occasion she’s seen him scuttle away out of the corner of her eye when she enters a room. And she’s certain that some of the phone calls he seems to constantly be taking are fake.</p><p>Which is why Nicola isn’t quite sure how to begin, now that she finally has him to herself.</p><p>It doesn’t help that she can barely hear her own thoughts over the yelling outside the wine cellar door. The party from Mexico City is <em> extremely </em> drunk and at ten minutes to midnight are rather excitable.</p><p>It’s the first time in these hellish few days that she’s really <em> looked </em>at him, sprawled haphazardly against the wall. The puffy redness around his gunmetal eyes. The way they sit so hollow in his face. His tie hanging askew and slightly loose, highlighting the pulsating throb of a vein in his throat. A bitter smile on his lips keeps threatening to shift into a snarl. His gaze follows hers as it trails down to his wrist. There’s a smear of blood on his hand and a few splotches on his shirt-cuff, but it doesn’t seem to be his. It’s like looking at a shipwreck - tossed and turned and dumped on some fucked-off beachhead somewhere grey and miserable. </p><p>She’d think about killing him if he wasn’t doing such a bang up job of it all on his own.</p><p>Suddenly, she’s aware of his jacket in her hands, this alien wool and silk clutched in her grasp. She had caught it trying to pull Malcolm away, and he shrugged out of it. Between then and chasing him up here, she just mindlessly held on to the damn thing. Nicola drapes it across the top of the shelves in the middle of the room before tentatively crossing to him. </p><p>Leaning into his space, the urge to straighten <em> something </em> about him overwhelms her and she winds her fingers around the neck of his tie. He doesn’t respond to the gesture, staring blankly over her shoulder. So she angrily tugs it instead, a groan stumbling from his lips. Not surprising. Because for some stupid reason, proximity to Nicola Murray catastrophically disables his survival instinct. He’d eat glass if she asked him to. </p><p>There’s a cacophony of buzzing noise-makers from the party outside and a man whistles.</p><p>“Nic’la,” he breathes, darting his tongue across his lip. Her palm is killing her, a deep ache from the volume of champagne she’s opened this evening. It reminds her very abruptly of just how tight her grip is. The tie slips from her grasp and she steps away, settling her back against the heavy wooden door. Trembling, her hand rises to her face and brushes back a lock of hair.</p><p>“Jesus - you’re lucky he didn’t call the police.” Her voice has a rasp to it, she notes. From exhaustion. From all of the yelling. From any number of things, really.</p><p>He snorts in derision. “Yeah, well. Fuck ‘im. I’ve got no qualm with doin’ it again.”</p><p>“That’s the problem - fuck. Right there, that’s the bloody problem!” Dragging a knuckle across his lip, she sees that she was mistaken. Some of the blood <em> is </em> his. The sight deflates her, the anger receding from her in a tidal shift. His body is a crime scene, a ruinous tableau with her name writ large across. “What are we, Malcolm? Really. What the <em> fuck </em> are we?”</p><p>“Dunno, love,” A slight grin ghosts across his lips. “Was hopin’ you could tell me that.”</p><p>Nicola bites down on her fist and swallows a scream.</p>
<hr/><p>Two hundred and fifty-seven reservations. The number stares at her from the host computer screen, mocking her in its absurdity. Twenty of those are a party on vacation from Mexico City - they don’t even begin to arrive until ten o’clock. Nicola had insisted on capping it four days ago when it was at a less disastrous two hundred and twenty. But then the fuckwit saw and insisted that they open it again. Happy New Year to her.</p><p>Steve Fleming is not officially on the payroll, not until the start of this next year. But that hasn’t stopped him from generating a well-spring of loathing within the staff - from his off-color joke about Glenn visiting his disabled son over the holidays, to his eluding to Terri not being attractive enough for the front desk. Emma doesn’t feel comfortable being alone with him and almost ran him through with a boning knife for calling her ‘pet.’ The women on the waitstaff insist that he talks down to them, and Nicola has to concur. Nothing about the man as a human being is remotely approaching likable. Not to mention all of the fucking <em>meddling. </em>How many reservations Nicola feels it prudent to take is none of his business, and threatening to run and tell Tom was a low move.</p><p>But in all honesty, tonight being a complete cock-up that she can directly attribute to Steve Fleming’s terrible judgement only strengthens her case. All she has to do is wait out the next few days and then everything will fall blissfully and venomously into place.</p><p>Sam Cassidy is a force to be reckoned with it. Nicola must remind herself to never <em>ever </em>cross her. Knowing all of this makes tonight’s bitter pill easier to swallow. She’s worked her fair share of shitshows before. She can drink her tea and put on a fake smile and handle things.</p><p>The look on Malcolm’s face when he and Jamie walk through the door is enough to make her think otherwise.</p><p>While Sam has been bent on great vengeance and undoing, Jamie has spent the last few days pouring all of his energies into keeping Malcolm Tucker alive and largely sober. Nicola has never been afforded great detail about Malcolm’s past, but Jamie has made several oblique references to a fantastic quantity of cocaine in the wake of destruction that Evie left behind. He hovers around him like a satellite, ready to nuke all possible threats from orbit. In the short span of time since the arrival of Steve Fleming, it’s been a fair bit of work. Sam’s estimation about the effect he would have on Malcolm’s well-being was in no way hyperbolic. Malcolm’s rage lacks its usual nimble wit or productivity. He isn’t trying to cultivate anything. Not anymore. The man is just traipsing through the vineyards setting fire to the trellises and smashing the grapes between his fingers.</p><p>Jamie had come to her the day after the ‘Sambush’, as he called it. He had told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t fix this - didn’t pull whatever thorn she had lodged in Malcolm’s side - he would not hesitate to ‘end her fuckin’ pitiful existence.’ But he did tell her that he trusts her. And more than that - he trusts Sam and <em> she </em> seems to think that Nicola is worth not heaving into the Thames.</p><p>Today he does not have time to approach Nicola alone. Malcolm is grumbling about things already, about Fleming being a reprehensible twat with the world’s worst mustache.</p><p>“Like a nightclub in the mornin’,” Jamie mutters with a smile. Something about the phrase jogs a pleasant response in Malcolm. “Steve’s the bitter end.”</p><p>“Like a recently disinfected shithouse, Steve’s clean round the bend.” Malcolm completes the verse with a look almost akin to happiness. However happy one can look when their face is made of jagged metal and Scottish fury. She hopes Jamie will take it as the minor victory that it is - and that when all of this is over he takes the vacation he fucking deserves.</p><p>The two head upstairs to begin preparing for the veritable <em> mountain </em> of work ahead of them this evening, leaving Nicola alone. As she sets about trying to make sense of where <em>exactly</em> they are going to put two hundred and fifty seven human beings over the course of the night, Nicola can’t help but wonder how Sam’s evening is going. The poor dear is working at Ten tonight with <em> Fleming. </em>Although, she must remind herself that Sam is not a ‘poor dear’ in any sense of the words.</p><p>Five days ago, Nicola had been spending a very quiet Boxing Day at home. She had purchased a new immersion blender online on a whim, knowing full well that she doesn’t cook that much and certainly nothing that complicated. The damn thing will probably just sit in a cabinet somewhere collecting dust after she makes a single batch of tomato bisque. But it was <em> on sale </em>and learning of Malcolm Tucker’s impending implosion had maybe left her a little open to impulsive flights of fancy. If the worst outburst she experiences is buying a bourgeois piece of kitchen equipment, Nicola is doing just fine. </p><p>It was on this day that she had received an email from Sam. It contained a short list of restaurant names, asking if Nicola knew anyone who has worked at them in the past five years. Specifically women - the lower on the totem pole the better. A few minutes of consideration and Nicola knew exactly what Sam was up to. And it turned out that the third one on the list <em>was </em>managed by someone she knows rather well. She had missed talking to Claire.</p>
<hr/><p>Again with the deflections. The man is slippery as a fucking eel.</p><p>“Get <em>bent</em>, Malcolm,” she hisses, her voice low. The guests outside don’t need to be party to their little domestic. And that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it? Another of their lovers’ spats. Only she doesn’t get the reward of a nice cathartic shag afterwards. “You’re the one making this <em>fucking </em>insane. I’m right here, you miserable tit. I’ve been here this whole time, but you can’t even - you’d rather preemptively burn all of your bridges than actually be vulnerable for a change. That’s what all of this is, right? Do you <em>enjoy</em> suffering?”</p><p>“‘Scuse you?” He reels from her as if struck, nearly stumbling into a box of Sancerres. Nicola takes immense pleasure in seeing something finally get through the barricades he’s erected between them since Christmas. “What gives you the fuckin’ right -”</p><p>“You selfish fucking <em>arse.</em>” Jamie and Sam had tried the carrot. It was now Nicola’s turn with the stick. While kindness is apparently incomprehensible, Malcolm Tucker is well-versed in the language of pain. “This isn’t self-contained! Other people actually care about you, as hard as that is to believe. As<em> foolish</em> as it is. Jamie? Sam? They’ve both been bending over backward to maintain things around you - spinning all these fucking plates to keep them all from crashing down on <em>your </em>stupid fucking head.”</p><p>Again, he is dumbfounded. He stutters, dragging a hand down his jaw, the swelling on his knuckles scarlet and pronounced. “What the fuck are you even talkin’ about?”</p><p>“Christ - see? You’re so self-absorbed in your own … whatever the fuck this is,” she waves a hand in the air dismissively. There is a rush to this, a sick adrenal high. It’s like she’s watching herself from the ceiling. The words just tumble from her lips from some wounded place inside. She realizes that this is what it must feel like to be <em>him.</em> Nicola at once understands the appeal. “Jamie is worried sick about you. Have you not noticed that he’s attached himself to you like a barnacle? And Sam - my <em>God, </em>Malcolm.”</p><p>It also occurs to her, from his complete inability to look her in the eyes, that Malcolm Tucker has not been on the receiving end of a bollocking in a very, <em>very </em>long time.</p><p>“I didn’t ask anybody - “</p><p>“No, of course not. You egotistical <em> nutter</em>.” She has to laugh at his assertion. Because if she doesn’t laugh she’s going to bludgeon him to death with the nearest bottle of Cabernet Franc. And that would be a waste of wine. “You didn’t <em> ask </em> anybody to care about you. Because that’s how it works, right? We only care about people if they fucking ask us to. You know what - that reminds me! You’ve never <em> asked </em> me to give two shits about you. So I guess I can finally stop laboring under the delusion that you actually <em> mean </em> something to me.”</p><p>Her tirade has carried her closer to him with each thought. Bringing her face close enough to feel his breath on her cheek, she hurls her words at him in a snarl. “Thank you so very <em> kindly </em> for releasing me.”</p>
<hr/><p>“I’m gonna go grab a Red Bull from the shop, you lot want anything?” Jamie calls out, interrupting her final proofread of the prix fixe menu for tonight. They have less than an hour before service starts and she really needs to finish the damn thing. “Told Mannion I’d bring him back a Twix.”</p><p>Terri has taken it upon herself to bring a box full of festive party favours for the evening - noisemakers, silly headbands with glittery gold stars and those awful novelty eye-glasses shaped like the year. She offers Nicola a pair and she politely waves them away.</p><p>“I’m fine, Jamie. Thanks anyway.” She’s stared at the after-dinner selections so long that brulee no longer seems like a real word. Or Sauternes for that matter. Looking into the lounge to try and clear her head, Nicola is vaguely aware of Malcolm fishing in his pocket. Extending his wallet to Jamie absentmindedly, he does not look up from the binder of spreadsheets he’s currently invested in. Which is why he does not see the folded piece of paper that Jamie has taken from inside and is now attempting to decipher.</p><p>Nicola recognizes the fuzzy red drawing immediately, her heart threatening to burst through her ribs. But there isn’t any way of stopping Jamie from the other side of the desk - she waves at him frantically, to no avail.</p><p>“What’s this you got tucked up in here?” The question is devoid of guile, simply Jamie trying to be a friend. An understandable mistake. Malcolm turns to look and in the split second between ignorance and blind rage, Nicola sees the deepest embarrassment flash across his eyes. He stands so fast that his chair nearly topples over, metal feet scraping loudly against the floor of the lounge. Before Jamie can process this turn of events, he tears the paper from his hands.</p><p>“Why the <em>fuck </em>would you think it’s alright to be goin’ through my fuckin’ personal property, eh? You fuckin’ feral <em>shite</em>. You brain-damaged fucking - <em>fuck.</em>” He runs a hand through his hair, then launches himself at Jamie, gripping his lapels. “Get the <em>fuck </em>out of my sight. Or I swear to fuckin’ christ I’ll - “</p><p>Before Nicola can get to her feet and do <em>anything </em>to prevent a full-scale assault - Emma explodes into the foyer from the hall, Ollie hot on her heels. The intrusion is enough of a disruption for Malcolm to come to his senses and release Jamie from his grasp.</p><p>“Do you <em>love</em> her? Was it worth it?” Emma’s voice is far, <em>far </em>too loud. There is a shrill, histrionic quality that makes Nicola wince. “I mean really - this is low, even for such a limp-dicked fucking <em>sot </em>like yourself.”</p><p>Ollie is turning an alarming shade of scarlet, his hair damp with sweat. “Jesus - Emma. Can we not do this <em>here -</em> “</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma laughs bitterly, jabbing a finger in his chest. “You can shove your cock down <em>Elizabeth’s </em>throat knowing I’d have to see her every fucking day I come to work, but God forbid we make <em>you </em>feel uncomfortable.”</p><p>“Okay! Hello! This is not the place - “ Nicola attempts to break into the conversation and grab a shred of control over the situation. She is dismayed to see that Malcolm and Jamie are just standing there gawking, while Terri busies herself with styling a headband in her hair. This is apparently singularly her problem.</p><p>Unaware of Nicola’s outburst, Ollie sneers at her. “Maybe if you’d ever put your <em>mouth</em> - “</p><p>There is a massive <em>thwack </em>as Nicola slams a wine menu down onto the host desk, startling the two combatants into finally looking at her. “I have had <em>enough</em>.”  </p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm has the audacity to physically push her away. Not hard enough to hurt. But enough for her to stumble. Enough for her to be caught off-guard.</p><p>“Oh, so <em>now </em>I mean something to you?” Apparently Nicola touched a nerve. Seething, he roughly shoves his shirt-sleeves up his forearm, momentarily marveling at the blood on the cuff.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck </em>- “ She sputters while regaining her footing.</p><p>“I’ve been waiting for <em>you</em> to fuckin’ -” He gapes at her, gesticulating in shock. His hands shake violently. “Look, you had a life and then I just came barging in and fuckin’ knocked it all to bits. How dare I actually be <em>considerate </em>and give you space - you’re in the middle of a fuckin’ divorce remember? And you know, maybe it would be a little self-absorbed of me to <em>assume </em>that you even fuckin’ want me. Right? Because you haven’t said shit -"</p><p>Now it is Nicola’s turn to shove back. She might be insane, but it seems like he smiles at the contact. “I tried to <em>fucking kiss you</em> and you dodged me, you cunt. You literally fucking <em>swatted </em>me away like I was a housefly. You fucking -”</p><p>He goes still. His eyes dart frantically in abject confusion. “I don’t remember that - when did you - “</p><p>“My front door! Christmas Eve!” This whole time she thought he was avoiding her because of <em>this.</em> And it turns out he doesn’t even remember. Nicola cried herself to sleep over this and he doesn’t even know it happened. She braces herself against a wall, staring fixedly at a dusty row of Piedmont reds. The Barberas and Dolcettos seem to mock her. “You walked me to my door and everything and you were just standing there <em>looking</em> at me - “</p><p>“No - That didn’t,” he mumbles at his shoes. “I didn’t  - fuck. Did I really?” </p><p>“No, I made it up specifically to shame you.” Nicola has never been so tired in her life. Emotionally. Physically. Drained of every reserve. “Of <em> course </em> you did. It broke me, you arse. I cried myself to sleep like a sodding teenager. Prick.”</p><p>For a moment, he stands in silence with his hand over his mouth. He looks paler somehow. If that’s even possible. “Nic’la - I genuinely don’t remember anything after the lift and even <em>that </em>is pretty fuckin’ hazy at best. I - I’m <em>sorry</em>.”</p>
<hr/><p>Nicola’s decision was not a popular one - Mannion went ballistic the second he saw Emma packing up her knives. Not only are they overly busy, but they were understaffed to begin with. <em>Before </em>she made the call to send Emma and Ollie home. But there wasn’t a way around it - Emma couldn’t stay if Elizabeth was on the floor, and she couldn’t spare the waitstaff to cut <em>her</em>. Sending Emma home without doing the same to Ollie felt distinctly unfair, considering this was entirely his fault. And frankly, Nicola didn't feel like looking at his face.</p><p>There isn’t time to reconsider. They are busy from the moment they open the doors. It is, without a doubt, the worst shift that Nicola has worked in a very long time. The sort that makes her consider walking out the exit door into the alley and never coming back. There is a very sharp pain in her chest when she recalls Malcolm’s fantasy about Majorca. A week ago has never felt so far away.</p><p>She spends the evening eating so much crow that there might as well be feathers in her teeth. Ticket times become laughable and kafka-esque. The mood in the dining room is akin to feeding time at the zoo. Glenn nearly lops off a finger tip trying to zest a lemon. Someone vomits all over the downstairs toilet, and doesn’t think to tell anyone. A woman gets so drunk in the Bailey Room that she actually <em> falls asleep </em> at her table. Lucio ends up in a full-tilt shouting match with garde manger - how can he be expected to bring out their next course if the woman isn’t even conscious? Nicola nearly considers telling a smarmy little Frenchman to go step in front of a bus after he accuses her of being intentionally incompetent. Doesn’t make a difference that his reservation is at a different restaurant entirely - he thought that he made it <em> here </em> and he claims to be friends with Tom’s aunt. So obviously they <em> have </em>to seat him. </p><p>The only silver-lining is just how easy it is to avoid Malcolm in the crowd. In fact, Nicola doesn’t speak to him all night. She’s almost certain that this is entirely Jamie’s doing - the man runs himself half to death throughout the evening, ensuring that Malcolm is free to deal with the more high-dollar tables personally and doesn’t have to waste his time with the waitstaff.</p><p>There is finally a slight ebb in the tide of the evening. There are no more outstanding reservations to be seated, and as soon as Annabelle rings in the upstairs party there are no more orders to be taken. They are a long way from anything resembling done for the night, but this is at the very least the beginning of the downhill slope. Nicola takes a moment to herself in the upstairs washroom to check her phone for the first time since late in the afternoon. The children are with James for the evening, so she hasn’t been too worried about being contactable. This was apparently a grave miscalculation.</p><p>She has <em> seven </em> missed calls from Sam. All from the last hour. There’s a frantic series of text messages - Claire Ballentine called Tom <em> directly </em> this evening. They had intended on waiting - on compiling a body of evidence - but apparently Claire’s experience with Steve was so outrageously unpleasant that she circumvented them. And Tom let him go on the spot, right in the middle of the shift. Pity. They were both rather excited to share with Tom the <em> two dozen </em> accounts from various hostesses and servers as to the unsavoury indiscretions of Steve Fleming, and the lengths he went to to sweep them under the rug. It was quite a damning dissertation they had assembled.</p><p>The last text is a warning. Steve knows that Claire and Nicola are friends, and has thus assumed that this is Nicola’s fault. And he is on his way to the restaurant. Sam’s warning does not arrive in time.</p><p>Nicola nervously descends the stairs and upon entering the server station is greeted by an <em> extremely </em> irate Fleming.</p><p>“You <em> fucking </em> bitch,” he howls, charging into her personal space. There is a sheen of sweat across his brow, his cheeks flushed scarlet. The stench of cheap whiskey oozes from his pores. “Why? Did Malcolm put you up to this?”</p><p>She tries to explain, her hands held up in a gesture of surrender. But Steve is so furious that he’s spitting on her when he speaks. Glenn yells over them both to cut it the <em> fuck </em> out - a suggestion impossible to entertain while he’s wearing those ridiculous novelty glasses. Terri keeps shrilly asking if she should phone the police. No one hears the footsteps thundering down the stairs and around the corner.</p><p>“Is he sleeping with you?” Steve’s face is so close to hers that she can count the fibers of his mustache. She wonders what would happen if she just <em> hit him</em>. Odious toad that he is. “Are you fucking him? That mangy -”</p><p>He doesn’t finish his sentence.</p><p>Malcolm’s fist colliding with his mouth makes it rather difficult. </p>
<hr/><p>She’s never actually <em> heard </em> him apologize before. Nicola pauses for a moment, just in case the earth opens up and swallows them both. Surprisingly, it does not. With a glance at his hands, she notices that he keeps rubbing at his knuckles. It makes her smile in spite of herself. She was livid with him - Glenn wrestling back Steve as she struggled to tear Malcolm away. Everyone chaotically shouting over each other, the servers clamoring into the hallway to stare. Chasing him up the stairs as he retreated to the wine room, carrying his jacket like an idiot past the smiling faces crowded around the tables. But she cannot find it within herself to sustain that anger.</p><p>For all that they want to, as hard as they try - Malcolm Tucker and Nicola Murray have never truly been able to hate each other. </p><p>“Did you do it for me?”</p><p>“Did I do what?” Malcolm is apparently too shaken by her recounting of the doorstep debacle to follow her line of questioning. She’s drawn to him like this, fragile and stunned. Taking his hand in hers, she gently brushes her thumb across the swollen skin. He stares at it transfixed.</p><p>“Fuck off, you know what I mean,” she chides. The urge to bring his hand to her lips threatens to overwhelm her. This foolish broken thing. “Did you hit Fleming <em> for </em> me?”</p><p>Malcolm smirks, in that cock-sure way that he has. It’s pure artifice, of course - he can’t bring himself to look at her and the hand in hers is practically vibrating. “Course I did, darlin’. How could you possibly doubt that?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” She rotates his hand, coaxing it open, and begins to massage his palm. His breath hitches in his throat and he worries his lip with his teeth. “You do seriously fucking loathe the man.”</p><p>“Yeah, but in all this time I’ve never actually <em> assaulted </em> him. That’s new.” The power she has over him - the way that the merest pressure from her thumbs on something as innocuous as his palm sets his teeth on edge - is the single most wonderful rush she’s ever felt. There is a distinct delight in just how <em> hard </em> he is struggling to sound casual. “What was he even angry about? Why the fuck did he come at you like that?”</p><p>With a coy smile and a tilt of her head, Nicola tells him what she knows to be the equivalent of pornography. She practically purrs. “I may or may not have directly caused him to lose his job before he actually got it.”</p><p>“Christ, Nic’la,” he moans teasingly, bringing his free hand to his chest. The pride in his eyes makes her heart skip. “You’re givin’ me a fuckin’ hard-on.”</p><p>“Please, I can’t take all the credit. It was almost entirely Sam’s doing. I am <em> legitimately </em> frightened of her.” This is not an exaggeration. She understands completely Malcolm’s resolute loyalty to the girl. Then - she remembers that time at the host desk. The joke he made about lubrication and his delighted response at her riposte. “Do I frequently do that?”</p><p>His eyebrows attempt to meet in the middle of his face. “Do what?”</p><p>“Give you an erection - fucking Christ. We’re absolutely terrible at this.” Nicola has not flirted with anyone in earnest in almost twenty years. This is going about as well as can be expected. Sighing, she leans her head against his shoulder. “I’m trying to - don’t know. Flirt with you, I guess. Is that even possible? Can someone flirt with a fucking cobra?”</p><p>“Yes,” he grumbles. When she does not respond, he elaborates, shifting on his feet. “To the erections, I mean.”</p><p>“<em>Oh.</em>” That was decidedly unanticipated. The first time he answers a personal question directly and it’s - that. The room is suddenly very <em> very </em> small, and much warmer than it should be.</p><p>“To all of it, really,” he speaks quietly, hovering above a whisper. She can barely hear him above the hum of the air-conditioning and the increasingly rowdy group outside. Not to mention the hammering of her pulse inside her skull. “The whole fuckin’ stupid mess. Yes to <em> you</em>. If you know, that’s somethin’ you’d want. I’m right fuckin’ awful if you haven’t noticed.”</p><p>“I have <em> absolutely </em> noticed. I’m very aware. You’re a nightmare. Complete rubbish.” She is dimly cognizant of the fact that she’s speaking at all, because he is turning to look at her very <em> seriously </em> now. A hand is gently winding its way into her tangle of hair, fingertips brushing pleasantly against her scalp. Involuntarily, she arches into the touch, her mouth continuing to spout drivel of its own accord. “It’s disgusting. I’m in <em>love</em> with a pile of rubbish. Poor me, right?”</p><p>There are numbers, people are <em> shouting numbers in Spanish </em> and it takes Nicola a moment to realize that the party is counting down. That it is quite nearly midnight. This chapter in her life is drawing to a close, and she knows exactly how she wants to begin the next page. “Did you -”</p><p>“Malcolm, I’m acutely aware of how cataclysmically stupid this is.” She could swear that her feet are hovering slightly above the floor, the surge of nerves leaving her giddy. His gaze darts from her lips to her eyes, every feature of his contorted with the unspoken question. The one to which she can only answer yes. “This is thoroughly fucking mental. ”</p><p>He does not dodge her this time. Malcolm Tucker instead meets her head-on with a level of force and conviction that threatens to rend her spirit in two. When their lips meet, there is an explosion of sound from the room outside. They cheer because it is midnight.</p><p>But Nicola pretends they’re cheering for her.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well. There we are then.</p><p>The poem that Malcolm and Jamie quote is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-aVtKEhpO0">Twat</a> by John Cooper Clarke - a piece that I'm convinced both would know by heart.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. fino.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nothing has ever felt like this before.</p><p>Nicola has never considered herself overly romantic or driven to great passions. She did not cry at her own wedding. But this, the way she cannot stop trying to <em> inhale </em>him, the way that his teeth scrape against her lips untamed and unsatisfied - every ounce of her burns. There is a whimper on his tongue when she places a hand along his throat, pressing her thumb against the underside of his jaw. </p><p>He breaks the kiss first, nuzzling along her ear and nipping at a lobe. There is a tinkling sound of glass on glass, the bottles on the shelf behind her rattling softly as he presses her against it. The noise reminds her rather rudely of where they are.</p><p>“Malcolm - aren’t there cameras in here?” She stutters, struggling to articulate over the maelstrom of sensation. There is nothing that exists beyond the feel of <em> him. </em>Malcolm Tucker kisses like it’s a war - one that he refuses to lose.</p><p>“Only coverin’ the doorway.” He brushes a thumb across her lip, Nicola drawing it between her teeth. The growl that rumbles in his throat is immensely validating. “We’re in a gargantuan fuckin’ blindspot here.”</p><p>“I get that - I <em> really </em> do.” His lips assail her throat, a hand slinking onto her waist. “But I don’t very well think - oh. No, we need to stop - Malcolm. We are at work - we can’t. I’m not having our first <em> anything </em> in the fucking wine cellar.”</p><p>Worrying her neck with his teeth, he snarls something about <em> shutting the fuck up</em>. And she tries in the haze of it all to say ‘fuck off.’ Unfortunately, she also tries to say ‘make me.’ The wires cross and she ends up very <em> clearly </em>stating ‘fuck me’ instead. </p><p>His knees buckle slightly and he hisses against her skin. Nicola has never felt so thoroughly coveted - the power is intoxicating. Upon further reflection, she isn’t sure that she wants to stop. Not really. The decision is made for her by an insistent knock at the door.</p><p>They pull away from each other abruptly, like two repelling magnets. Nicola makes an attempt at smoothing her hair, which is more than likely a lost cause, and straightens her skirt. There is no salvaging Malcolm - he looked a mess before Nicola attempted to suck his lungs out through his mouth.</p><p>“Yes?” She attempts to sound casual and controlled, but her voice cracks. “Come in.”</p><p>The door opens slowly, tentatively. As if whoever is behind it anticipates a bloodbath. There is much less noise from the party outside. In fact, it sounds as if they are actually <em> gone. </em> They must have been up here for longer than she’s realized.</p><p>“Yer alrigh’ in here? Worried one of you lot fuckin’ bludgeoned the other tae fuck.” Jamie offers as he pokes his head into the room. His reticence makes Nicola wonder if there wasn’t a drawing of straws to determine who came up here to assess the damage. Upon seeing them, Jamie first looks quite shocked. But then, with a tilt of his head, a massive grin spreads across his features. And - if Nicola can believe it - there is a rosy flush creeping along his cheeks.</p><p>“Can I fuckin’ help you?” Bracing against a wall, Malcolm attempts his usual authoritative bravado. But his chest keeps heaving unsteadily, undermining the facade. “Clearly, we’re both consentin’ fuckin’ adults here who do not need to be checked up on.”</p><p>Something about his phrasing tickles Jamie and he has to stifle a laugh. “Look. I’m - Steve’s gone, yeh? If you wanted to come down now. I told him to go fellate the business end of a shittin’ shotgun. But I’ll uh - leave you to it in the meantime. Right.”</p><p>Shaking his head, he snorts again and covers it with a cough, disappearing and closing the door.</p><p>“What the <em> fuck </em> was all that then?” Malcolm asks, turning to face her for the first time since they were interrupted. And oh <em> god. </em> Nicola has to laugh, too. “You mind cluin’ me the fuck in here, you daft hen?”</p><p>His tie hangs almost totally undone, his shirt half-untucked from his trousers, and his hand is turning vaguely purple. But the cherry on top - there is a generous smear of Nicola’s lipstick across his mouth, a violent stripe of mauve trailing along to his jaw.</p><p>“There’s um. A fair bit of my lipstick. Kind of, well.” Nicola crosses to him, pulling the inner wrist of her blouse over her hand and bringing it to his face. She paws at him gently and Malcolm recoils like a toddler. “It’s all over you. Jamie is <em> very </em> aware of what just happened between us.”</p><p>“And what exactly <em> did </em> just happen between us?” He asks softly, eyes downcast. There is a hesitation in him, a fear that she will wrest from whatever momentary insanity just gripped her. Satisfied with the cleanliness of his face, Nicola moves on to buttoning his collar and attempting something about his tie.</p><p>“I <em> think </em> you just told me I frequently give you erections,” she teases with a sly grin. Then, she earnestly brings a hand to his face, cupping his jaw in her palm. “I also think you admitted that you might very well be harboring <em> feelings </em> for me of a distinctly romantic nature. At which point I admitted to returning those feelings. And then we snogged like a couple of teenagers.”</p><p>His eyes flutter shut in remembrance. “Ah. Yes, I do believe we did.” Malcolm hums in contentment as Nicola holds his jacket for him, helping it onto his arms.</p><p>“Now we should probably go face the inevitable slack-jawed audience of dimwits that awaits us at the foot of the stairs.” He halts at the door, throwing a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “Also - your fuckin’ tit’s fallen out of your bra, you trollop. Jamie’s practically caught us in flagrante fuckin’ delicto.” </p><p>Mortified, Nicola looks down at her chest to find that <em> yes, </em> her left breast had escaped from her bra. And even though it was still within her blouse, any fool with <em> eyes </em>could see the entire outline of her erect nipple. Christ alive. No wonder Jamie turned crimson.</p><p>She can’t bear the idea of them both coming down to face whatever awaits them downstairs simultaneously, so she gives Malcolm a head start. When she emerges from the wine cellar the party is long gone, Annabelle doing her best to tidy up the wreckage. In an effort to be somewhat nonchalant, Nicola loads a tray with used glassware to take downstairs, focusing on the weight on her hand and the sloshing liquids instead of the nerves fluttering in her stomach.</p><p>They <em> kissed. </em> They not only kissed - they almost dry-humped. And it was, frankly, incredible. Nicola descends the stairs in a dream, free from the nightmarish tension of the last several days. She glances at the mirror on the stairwell ceiling, disorienting as it is, and notes that she is positively <em> glowing. </em>How odd that a man who can cause her so much suffering can so easily bring her so much joy. </p><p>Turning the corner into the wait station, her gaze falls on Jamie and Malcolm standing conspiratorially at the end of the bar. Jamie is whispering something to him, Malcolm nodding solemnly in response. And then - Malcolm actually pats him on the back, pulling him into a sort of half-hug that Jamie gruffly accepts.</p><p>Busying herself with emptying glasses and putting them into the racks, she does not see Malcolm come up behind her. When he speaks she jumps.<br/>
<br/>
“Listen, Nic’la. I’ve had a rather <em> exhaustin’ </em> evening, what with fuck all going on. Jamie has quite nobly and fuckin’ stupidly offered to close things up here.” There’s something he isn’t saying - something he can’t quite bring himself to articulate. Nicola is having great difficulty reading between the lines as he shuffles on his feet, hands in his pockets. “So I’m going to head out.”</p><p>Nicola stares at him, squinting. He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, clearly waiting for a response from her. “Okay? I’ll see you … day after tomorrow, yeah?”</p><p>“Right. Yeah, that’s - ‘night.” Turning on his heels, he awkwardly shuffles out into the hall and towards the foyer. Jamie groans and slaps the bar with the flat of his palm.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake. Nic’la? You know you can leave <em> too, </em> right?” He stares at her intently, gesturing towards the hallway. There’s a moment of utter incomprehension - and then.</p><p>“Oh, Christ. I’m a fucking idiot,” Nicola sighs. She does not deserve Jamie. Neither of them do, apparently. “He’s an idiot. We’re both <em> fucking </em> idiots. God - thank you, Jamie. I mean it. Thank you for <em> everything</em>.” He offers her a comedic mock salute, and then she’s chasing Malcolm out into the hallway.</p><p>He’s no longer in the building when she gets to the host desk, rummaging in a drawer for her handbag and throwing on her coat as quickly as possible.  The absolute tosser couldn’t articulate to her that Jamie was giving them <em> both </em> the rest of the night off. Jamie - who had seen them so clearly <em> indisposed, </em> and had thus made a certain assumption about how they would like to spend their evening. But Malcolm couldn’t possibly indicate to her that he’d rather like to leave with her and finish what they started. She flings open the door and pitches herself into the night, the frigid air sharp against her face. There are mobs of people out on the street, drunkenly stumbling in revelry. But as she looks to her left and to her right, Malcolm is nowhere to be seen.</p><p>Frustrated and shivering, she digs in her handbag for her phone, frantically scrolling for his number. She thinks about sending a text, but decides that it’s far too urgent for that. He’s probably moping off somewhere, thinking that she rejected him when he didn’t even ask the bloody question. It rings twice, three times, Nicola’s stomach tightening with each trill. Then, blessedly, he answers.</p><p>“Nic’la? What’s wrong?” She can still hear the outside crowd in the background. He must not have caught a taxi yet, thank God.</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong.” <em> You’re dense and I’m blind and if we don’t get past that we’re going to ruin everything before it begins. That’s what’s wrong. </em> “It’s just - my house is empty. James took the kids for the evening.”</p><p>“Oh fuckin’ great. Is this that ridiculous Christmas Eve thing again? You don’t want to be alone? Fuckin’ mental - ”</p><p>“No. You fucking <em> arse</em>. I mean, yes. I don’t want to be alone. But not - it’s not that. For fuck’s sake,” she sighs, closing her eyes and biting the bullet. “Are you coming home with me or not, you miserable bastard?”</p><p>The line goes silent. Taking her phone from her ear, she gapes at the screen in horror. Malcolm has <em> hung up on her</em>. She is about to call him back, to tell him exactly how he can go fuck himself, when she hears him.</p><p>“Nic’la, I -” He stops, a meter to her left, seemingly unable to find words. There is a moment, staring at each other’s breath in the air, listening to the hum of the crowded city, where they are both totally transfixed. He looks at her with such a vulnerable gaze that she fears he may simply turn and run.</p><p>“Come home with me,” she insists, coming forward and lacing his hand in hers. He arches an eyebrow at her quizzically. But before he can inevitably ask if she’s sure, if this is what she <em> really </em> wants, if this is the right thing, she cuts him off. “Now how about we catch a cab, yeah?” </p><p>The ride home is strange at best, Malcolm keeping himself solidly to his side of the seat, choosing to quietly stare out of the window for the duration. They must seem to the driver as if they had a fantastic row. It is a sharp contrast to how comfortable he was with her earlier, trading hungry kisses for furtive glances. But when she reaches across the seat for his hand, he clings to her so hard it nearly hurts.</p><p>He insists, clumsily, on paying the fare for them both. He even goes so far as to open her door for her. The entire effect - Malcolm Tucker attempting to act like a civilized human being - is disorienting and leaves her altogether uncomfortable. By the time they get to her doorstep, the man is a nervous wreck.</p><p>“Malcolm - what the <em> fuck </em> is wrong with you right now?” She wheels on him, exasperated and confused. Where is the man that was rutting her into a shelf merely an hour ago? There is a flicker across his gaze, squashing down a scathing remark. He instead straightens his shoulders and rubs at his jaw.</p><p>“I seriously didn’t think I’d get this far. With you. It’s a wee bit overwhelming, if i’m bein’ totally fuckin’ honest here,” he huffs, poking at her doormat with the tip of his shoe. “Upstairs was one thing, y’know. In the moment and all that. But now you’ve had time to fuckin’ think about it and I know how much you love to overthink things.”</p><p>“I swear to God, if you pull the whole tired ‘<em>yer makin’ a fuckin’ mistake Nic’la</em>’ thing,” she mocks him in his own accent, a skill-set he was not aware until now that she even possessed. The sound raises his eyebrows perceptibly. Nicola rolls her eyes at him before going for the jugular. <em> One </em> of them needs to speak truth to the thing between them or they’re never going to get anywhere. Might as well be her. “I have asked you to be here. I have indicated in no uncertain terms that I possess a massive, colossally stupid fondness for you. I am standing with you on my doorstep in the middle of the fucking night, in a pair of uncomfortably wet knickers, practically <em> begging </em> you to come inside and do something about it. But no - you didn’t possibly imagine you’d get this far? Stop being such a coward or I’m going to end up finishing the night alone with my own hand.”</p><p>“Oh - so I’m a coward then, yeah?” He fires back with a smirk. Leaning into him and placing a hand on his chest, she nods with a lip between her teeth.</p><p>“If you dodge me again you’re bloody hopeless,” she whispers, nerves coiling in her belly at the recollection of the last time she attempted this maneuver and found herself rebuffed. The kiss is nothing like the urgent one before. It is feather-soft and diaphanous, two people breathing the same air. His forehead comes to rest against hers and something in her heart swells. If she isn’t careful she might cry.</p><p>“Shall we go inside, then?” Malcolm murmurs in an attempt at levity. Before they both end up feeling entirely too much about whatever this is transpiring between them. “Or am I just goin’ to stand out here until my left testicle freezes off?”</p><p>She nods, fumbling with her keys in the lock, her fingers stiff with cold. Nicola feels no trepidation about her decision to sleep with the man but there is a particular wash of anxiety at the thought of him coming into the house. To be in one’s home is to truly know them. And Nicola is not entirely certain he will still want her when he does. This train of thought is derailed by Nicola’s heel connecting with something in the dark, taking all of her balance with it. She awkwardly stumbles backward into him, Malcolm catching her under her arms. Fumbling along the wall for a light switch, she ascertains that the offending object is another one of Ben’s toy cars.</p><p>Taking in the rest of the house, the sight that greets her makes her feel distinctly less romantic. Nastya has been with her family throughout the Holiday, and Nicola has been so emotionally distraught that the house is significantly less cleaner than usual. Scratch that. It is a downright <em>disaster</em>. Toys are strewn everywhere, sprawling out from beneath the Christmas tree she has not yet disassembled and put away. Ben’s Spiderman costume is draped across the sofa, and he has again left a fleet of little metal vehicles leading up to the foot of the stairs. If she cranes her neck, she can see an unfolded basket of laundry in the corner.</p><p>She would not be surprised if she turned around to see a Malcolm Tucker shaped dust cloud, the man having turned tail and fled into the night.</p><p>Instead, a pair of hands slide around her waist, his body coming to rest solidly against her.</p><p>“I’m sorry about this,” she mumbles, arching into his touch. “It’s my housekeeper. She’s been out for Christmas and I’ve just been so worried about you and everything -"</p><p>“Now you’re gonna blame your house being in fuckin’ shambles on <em> me</em>?” Malcolm teases, wrapping his arms snugly around her and bringing her into something approximating a hug. Not that he <em> does </em> that sort of thing. Ever. “Christ - you must be more posh than I thought. Frettin’ over a totally average lookin’ mess.” </p><p>“That’s not true, you know.” She struggles in his grasp, wrenching herself around to face him. This has been bothering her since his complete disintegration in the lift. His entire image of her is fundamentally flawed. “You keep <em> insisting </em> I’m some poncy, well-bred woman. I’m not. None of this <em> belongs </em>to me. It’s all James’s. Always has been. The money. The house. Everything. I’m just as much of an interloper to these people as you are. I just made the unfortunate miscalculation of marrying one of them.” </p><p>He cocks his head to the side, a look of genuine appreciation in his eyes, before bringing a hand to the side of her face. “How do you keep fuckin’ surprisin’ me, Nic’la? I keep thinkin’ I’ve figured you all out, but then you go and do something completely <em> fuckin’ mental </em> like actually stand up to me or try and kiss me or invite me to your house, presumably to fuck you.”</p><p>“I keep surprising you because you keep assuming you know who I am,” she chides. After a moment of consideration, he nods in assent. She takes him by the hand, eliciting an inquisitive eyebrow, before leading him to the stairs. “Come on, my bedroom is at least cleaner than all of this. I can promise you that.”</p><p>Malcolm, the perpetual outsider, does his best to not stare at the room. But Nicola can see in the glances he takes that he is drinking it in, filing it away as bits and pieces of her. The large Calathea Orbifolia in the corner, leaves craning to receive the first rays of sunlight. The impractical volume of pillows that dwarfs her bed. The mess strewn on her vanity table - a hairbrush that desperately needs cleaning, various creams and serums, her bottle of Rescue Remedy and a well-worn copy of <em>The House of Mirth</em>.</p><p>One of her first acts after James left was purchasing new bedding, something she is immensely thankful for as she now stares at the sage green quilt and crisp white sheets. Some might get a sick satisfaction from it, a final act of revenge. But the idea of bringing another man into the bed that she and James shared for so many years does not appeal to her. As he comes behind her, hand trailing along her shoulder, she can feel the unspoken question burning behind his lips. She is so very sick of people asking her if she is okay. If she <em> wants </em>things. Doubting her judgement in herself. Before he can say the foolish words, she turns to him and blurts her own.</p><p>“I love you." The words tumble out clumsily. The declaration feels absurd the moment her vocal cords produce the sounds -  it’s too much too soon. She’s going to scare him away, nutter that she is.</p><p>There isn’t any time for her to reflect. He descends on her furiously, besieging her mouth with his. His tongue slips against her lips, fingers tightly wound in her hair, and Nicola softly groans. Recalling his response to her hand on his throat, she pulls his lower lip between her teeth and gently bites at it. The reaction is immediate - Malcolm’s hands grow frantic, flying to the buttons of her blouse. They are graceless in their haste, Nicola in turn struggling to divest him of his jacket and fumbling with his tie.</p><p>It becomes apparent, inelegantly tumbling backward onto the bed with a laugh, that Malcolm has a thing for her stockings. Looming over her, he bunches her skirt against her thighs, hungrily grazing his hands against the sheer black material on her legs. She also realizes - with an abrupt ache in her ribs - that she has never felt so passionately and thoroughly loved. And never has she wanted something, anything so badly in return. </p><p>Every centimetre of skin that his fingertips brush against is left scorched. Their kisses are unkind and raw, teeth clinking against each other and noses pressing strangely into cheeks. But she cannot stop - not for anything in the world. Nicola briefly feels self-conscious about her form, the ravages that four pregnancies and time have wrought upon it. But all of that melts away when he brings his lips to her ear, dipping a hand inside her bra.</p><p>“You are fuckin’ spectacular, pet.”</p><p>Sensations begin to swirl together, kaleidoscopic snippets of breath and touch. The worry - thumbs hooking into the waistband of her stockings - that he is going to tear them. The relief and then violent arousal at the reverence with which he rolls them down her legs. Malcolm’s growl, his breath hot against her thigh when she rakes her fingernails against his scalp. As his teeth scrape along the inner crease of her leg, she is reminded of the allusion in the lift. The unfinished thought - Malcolm’s assertion of his comparative prowess.</p><p>He was not wrong. This is certainly the best fuck that Nicola has ever experienced in her life.</p><p>And, if she may be so bold, she hazards a guess that it is <em> his </em> as well. If the strangled cry into her shoulder when she whimpers his name is any indication. Or the stutter of his hips when she follows it with a plea, beseeching him to not stop, to never stop, to please <em> just do that. </em> With a flourish of inspiration, Nicola bites down on his shoulder and he comes with a snarl.</p><p>Lying draped across his chest, his hand idly toying with the unkempt mass of her hair, she can hear the hammering of his heart inside of his ribs. The heart that he insists he doesn't have. The heart that he once indicated she held within her hands. The weight of everything - the days of Malcolm’s impending implosion, the vast abyss of not knowing <em> really </em> how he felt, the hours spent plotting with Sam, the lingering threat of Dan <em> fucking </em>Miller - bears down upon her at once. She is exhausted enough that her eyelids keep threatening to flutter shut, but the thought of sleep terrifies her. Because she fears that when she wakes he will no longer be there.</p><p>“What are you thinking about?” she mumbles blearily against his skin, shivering as he traces a fingertip along her side. He pauses for a moment in deep consideration. This does absolutely nothing for her mounting anxiety. Finally, he answers with a question.</p><p>“You got any ghee?” Malcolm speaks as if this is the most normal question in the world. When she does not readily answer, he continues with a huff. “I was thinkin’ about what I’m goin’ to make for breakfast. Your kitchen is probably fuckin’ abysmal.”</p><p>Nicola does not have ghee.</p><p>But the next morning's omelette is the finest she has ever tasted in her life.<br/>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. ripasso. // epilogue.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola Murray was not Malcolm Tucker’s first choice. There were other women. Far more than he’d ever admit to her. A handful of men. A wife even. Nicola Murray was so far down the list that Malcolm Tucker did not even realize she was on it. Not until she had firmly and irrevocably stolen his heart, among other things.</p><p>While far from being his first choice, Nicola Murray is certainly his <em>best</em> choice. A fact that has become increasingly clear to him with the passage of time. He watches her now, hovering on the other side of the heavy glass doors. There is a thick ceramic travel mug clutched in her hands, the kind that she’s been badgering him into getting for himself. Something about waste and non-recyclable paper and rainforests and all that. Nicola fiddles with the latch, taking a swig of what he can safely presume to be Lemon Zinger. She’s trying to drink less caffeine, which means in turn that <em> he </em> is trying to drink less caffeine. Supposedly. To her knowledge at least. Malcolm takes a moment to down the rest of his coffee, huddled behind the desk where she cannot see, and discards the evidence in the wastebasket.</p><p>She always looks so <em> kind. </em> The sight of her, so free of artifice or hostility, never ceases to warm his heart. Not that he would ever tell anyone that, least of all himself.</p><p>From his vantage point behind the host desk, he has a clear view of the way she <em> finally </em>finds it within herself to open the door. And upon reaching for it - finds it locked. Their eyes lock through the glass and she glares at him, a tiny frown tugging at her lips. There is a momentary impulse flashing through his mind, the overwhelming desire to kiss it away. He pushes that down somewhere deep to be dealt with later, settling for nudging Terri in the shoulder.</p><p>“Do you mind going and fuckin’ lettin’ her in?” Malcolm gestures broadly at the door. “Could you at least <em> pretend </em> I’m payin’ you to work here?”</p><p>With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Terri trudges off to unlock the door. She hastily sets about bolting it behind them the instant Nicola is inside. Malcolm had worried very briefly about Terri’s ability to maintain a poker face, but thus far she has seemed her usual less-than-exuberant self. Come to think of it, she's doing such a good job that she might not be acting after all. </p><p>“Hello, Nicola. How are you?” She drones, taking Malcolm’s place behind the desk as he comes forward to take Nicola’s coat. “How’s Claire? Busy?”</p><p>“Oh, you know. The usual. Good nights and bad.” Nicola’s voice trembles slightly at the end. In removing the coat from her shoulders, Malcolm has perhaps allowed his fingertips to brush against that lovely spot right at the base of her neck that makes her giggle like a fiend. The spot that he so frequently likes to place his lips against, just to make her squirm. She shoots him a teasing glare, one that he refuses to acknowledge, feigning innocence. “It’s such a nice change of pace, working with a team of women. Totally different environment really.”</p><p>“Emma’s really doing a bang-up job with the menu, from what I’ve heard. Mannion's been a nightmare without her. Constantly groaning about how fuckin' useless Phil is. Cheeky move. Taking her with you like that,” Malcolm adds, preening slightly on Nicola’s behalf. He is quite proud of her. Even if he doesn’t articulate it as overtly as he should. Even if he misses her every single shift.</p><p>Claire Ballentine has quite the head for business - her and Nicola’s combined efforts have placed Claire’s new restaurant, Fourth Sector, among the more serious contenders this year. Rumors from Sam have indicated to him that they are even beginning to give Ten a run for their money. Not that it matters to him. He hasn’t set foot in that building in months. Not since Dan Miller and his cadre took over from Tom.</p><p>“Speaking of women,” Nicola leans an elbow against the host desk, an errant lock of hair tumbling in front of her cheek. Malcolm resists the urge to tuck it back for her - they are still very much in a danger zone where touch is considered. If he touches her in earnest, he may kiss her. And if he kisses her, he may very well be unable to stop. Especially today, of all days. He is relieved at once when she rectifies the situation herself. “How is Sam? I haven’t heard from her lately.”</p><p>Terri snorts a laugh. “Please. She and Jamie barely make contact with the outside world anymore.”</p><p>For all of Malcolm’s efforts at match-making, it was Sam’s ruthless dismantling of Steve Fleming that did the trick. Jamie found the entire thing impossibly attractive. The boy’s been smitten ever since. Within two months of Jamie throwing himself at her feet, they had already moved into a new flat together. And - Malcolm has been sworn to the utmost secrecy on this point - Jamie has recently come to him for assistance on selecting an engagement ring. God help them both.</p><p>Malcolm has not been so bold. Without the brashness of youth, he and Nicola have settled into a deliberate pace, feeling things out as they go. While they have not made an attempt to cohabitate in earnest, more of Malcolm’s possessions migrate into her house with each passing day. A toothbrush here, extra pair of trousers there. He has found that he sleeps better in her bed than his own. Despite his protestations about the volume of pillows she possesses or how insufferably early she feels compelled to rise. He has actually become rather fond of the racket the Murray children make in the morning. His own flat has grown unsettling in its silence.</p><p>“And how is your fearless leader treating you? Not too much of a tyrant, I hope.” Nicola teases with a smile. Though the question is directed at Terri, her eyes do not leave his.</p><p>“Oh, I’m an absolute fuckin’ despot, dear,” he sneers, taking a moment to glance over her shoulder into the lounge. It’s a risk - thankfully she doesn’t notice. He’d hate for her to turn at this point and ruin the surprise. He can’t fathom what could possibly be taking Mannion this long. Lazy sod. “This lot leaves here crying every fuckin’ night. Bloodied and bruised, thoroughly beat to shit.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” Terri tutts. He must be losing his edge. “He’s actually gone sort of soft. It’s absolutely embarrassing. I blame you.”</p><p>Nicola rubs a playful hand on his forearm, a gesture of reassurance. “See? I told you that you’d be good at this. But you didn’t believe me. Bastard.”</p><p>“Harpy. Shrew. Nag,” he fires back half-heartedly. She was right in the end. He is actually really good at this whole owning a restaurant thing.</p><p>It’s surreal to think about, even now. Everyone had assumed that Malcolm was unaware of the plot against Tom. That he was in danger of being cast out on the street with the changing of the guard. But that was far from the case. Malcolm had known for months that Tom was looking for a way out. He had frequently approached Malcolm about the possibility of selling him his own controlling stake in Dos at a steal, an offer that he repeatedly turned down. Until Nicola found out and relentlessly goaded him into it, even if it meant her searching for employment somewhere else. They had agreed that it just wouldn’t be right for her to work under him. As much as he <em> enjoys </em>her being under him, in the right context.</p><p>He must admit - it has been good for him. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t work for anyone but himself. It’s been freeing in ways he could never have imagined.</p><p>Terri wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes. Always so dramatic. “You’re flirting again. We’ve talked about this - it’s disgusting and I’d like you to do it somewhere else. What happens behind your front door stays there. Not on my host desk. Thank you kindly.”</p><p>Nicola opens her mouth to tell her off - something Malcolm has always deeply enjoyed observing - when she pauses to sniff the air. “Do you - do you smell chips? I think I smell chips.”</p><p>There is a look of utter incomprehension on her face as Annabelle pokes her head into the foyer with two small plates stacked with bits of fried potato. “Malcolm - were you ready for these?”</p><p>“Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.” He takes the plates from her hand with a shrug, doing his best to look nonchalant. Malcolm does not do grand romantic gestures. It took him exactly thirty-seven days from their initial roll in the hay to actually drop the big L-bomb. He regrets to this day not doing it the moment she did. Or when she kissed him on New Years, Steve’s blood on his hand. Or that first time she <em>tried </em>to, even if he doesn’t remember that. Frankly, he should have told her in the lift, instead of whatever the fuck misguided shit he attempted to do there.</p><p>Thus something as simple as this, guiding her to the table in the lounge with two plates of chips balanced in his hand, leaves him rattled. Nicola does not piece together what he’s up to until she sees the glassware. He watches her eyes dart from the two wine glasses to the white envelope with her name on it, followed by the ice bucket nearby and the bottle of champagne within.</p><p>She looks at him, mouth agape. And then she <em>bursts into tears</em>.</p><p>“What - oh for fuck’s sake.” He hastily makes for the wine, pouring her a hearty glass in apology for whatever he’s managed to cock-up now. This is what he gets for trying. He should’ve sent flowers or something. He should’ve just asked Sam to pick a gift for him. Even Katie or Ella could’ve made a better choice. Fucking <em>hell. </em>“What in Christ’s name did I do wrong, love? Don’t fuckin’ - it’s just chips and champagne for your birthday. I was tryin’ to surprise you - “</p><p>And then she’s hugging him, very tightly, nearly knocking the bottle out of his grasp. He’s finding it rather impossible to breathe. As if that isn’t enough, she starts <em>kissing </em>him, sloppy open-mouthed things that land haphazardly along his jaw. Terri loudly clears her throat, at which point she reluctantly tears herself away.</p><p>“You remembered,” she croons, lowering herself into a chair. He offers her a linen and she dabs at her eyes before draping it across her lap. Taking a deep inhale, nose shoved as far into the glass as anatomically possible, her eyelids flutter shut with a smile. She sighs contentedly. “It’s the same wine and everything. Oh my God, Malcolm. It’s <em> perfect</em>.”</p><p>“How could I forget?” Topping off his own glass, he joins her with a shrug. There is a look of near-ecstasy on her face when she pops the first chip into her mouth. It leaves him feeling distinctly self-satisfied, possibly bordering on smug. “One of the best fuckin’ meals I’ve ever had in my life. And I’ve been to Le Bernadin. <em> And </em> The fuckin’ French Laundry. Thomas Keller can’t hold a candle to you.”</p><p>“Besides,” he leans to whisper in her ear, lest Terri hear him and grow any less afraid of him than she already has. Malcolm Tucker has an image to maintain. “I’d sooner forget the ten Crus of Beaujolais than your birthday, Nic’la. I can promise you that.”</p><p>One day he may very well struggle to recall if it’s Chiroubles right before Morgon. Or maybe it's Fleurie. So be it.</p><p>But he can be certain that Nicola Murray will never feel forgotten again. Not while he’s around.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And with that - we're done. Clocking in at 53k words in a month. Down to the day. Thank you to everyone who has commented and helped mid-wife this massive undertaking. You're the real MVPs and I never would've been so motivated to keep going without your words. Thanks y'all. Fuckin' seriously.</p>
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